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THE 

Mystery  of  Raven  Rock 


A  NOVEL 


BY 


MRS.  E.  D.  E.  N.  SOUTHWORTH 

Author  of  "Ishmael,"  "Retribution,"  "The  Bridal  Eve,"  "A  Nobe  Lord," 
"Th*  Deserted  Wife,"  "The  Haunted  Homestead,'1  "Unknows," 
"The  Bride's  Fate,"  "The  Lost  Heiress," 
"The  Wife's  Victory,"  etc. 


CHICAGO 

M.  A.  DONOHUE  &  CO. 
407-429  Dearborn  St. 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  RAVEN  ROCKS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  Eve:  OF"  PARTING. 

It  was  early  on  a  clear,  cold,  still,  starlight  night,  in 
the  first  week  of  November.  It  was  the  evening  before 
the  departure  of  Musa  and  her  guests  from  Bay  Beauty, 
and  nearly  all  the  preparations  had  been  completed  for 
the  flitting. 

Mrs.  Shrewsbury  and  Captain  Philip,  her  son,  had 
taken  leave  of  Clarice  and  her  friends  at  The  Shoals 
that  morning.  And  they  were  now  shut  up  alone  to- 
gether in  the  old  lady's  private  sitting-room,  talking  over 
the  arrangements  for  the  approaching  marriage  of  that 

fallant  cavalry  officer  and  the  sprightly  little  heiress  of 
Urate's  Peak,  Espirita  Carew. 

Kate  Carew  was  in  her  bedchamber,  engaged  in  some 
final  little  preparation  for  her  journey. 

Armida  Sutton,  in  her  own  apartment,  was  similarly 
occupied. 

There  was  a  'bright,  .cheerful  wood  fire  burning  in  the 
open  fireplace,  in  the  old-fashioned,  oak-paneled  parlor. 

But  there  were  only  two  occupants  of  the  room— Au- 
gust Carew  and  Musa  Percie. 

They  were  seated  far  apart,  at  opposite  sides  of  a  large 
round  table  that  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room  before 
the  fire. 

Both  were  reading,  or  trying  to  read,  and  both  were  si- 
lent and  fearfully  self-conscious  of  being  under  a  spell. 

August  was  the  first  to  lay  down  his  book  and  speak. 

He  looked  at  Musa  in  silence  for  a  few  minutes. 

And  she  felt  that  he  was  looking  at  her,  though  she 
never  raised  'her  eyes. 


The  Eve  of  Parting. 


"Miss  Percie,"  he  began,  in  a  low  voice,  "this  is  our 
last  evening  on  this  beautiful  coast.  The  night  is  very- 
fine,  for  November,  and  the  sea  is  grand  under  the  star- 
light. Will  you  put  on  your  shawl,  and  give  me  your 
company  for  a  walk  on  the  beach  ?" 

"I  shall  be  very  much  pleased  to  do  so,"  answered 
Musa,  as  she  arose  to  leave  the  room  to  get  her  wraps. 

While  she  was  gone,  August  Carew  left  his  seat  by 
the  fire  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  floor. 

In  about  five  minutes,  however,  she  rejoined  him. 

They  went  out  together,  and  took  the  Almond  Tree 
•   avenue  down  to  Cape  Welcome. 

The  tender  exotic  trees  that  bordered  this  avenue,  and 
gave  it  their  name,  were  now  quite  stripped  of  their 
leaves ;  and  the  clear  blue-black  night  sky,  with  its  mill- 
ions of  brilliant  stars  could  be  seen  through  their  naked 
twigs  and  branches. 

The  pair  walked  down  the  avenue  in  almost  perfect 
silence. 

And  not  until  they  came  out  upon  the  open  'beach  and 
saw  the  clear  dark  bay,  with  its  glittering  ripples,  almost 
rivaling  the  clear,  dark  sky,  with  its  sparkling  stars, 
stretched  out  before  them,  was  a  single  sentence  spoken. 

Then  August  Carew  broke  the  silence,  as  he  had 
broken  it  a  few  minutes  before,  in  the  drawing-room. 

"This  is  our  last  evening  at  Bay  Beauty,  Miss  Percie," 
he  said,  in  a  very  sad  tone. 

"And  I  am  very  sorry,"  murmured  Musa. 

"To-morrow  morning  we  part  and  go  on  our  several 
ways  and  in  opposite  directions.  You  and  the  ladies  of 
your  party  to  Washington,  and  my  mother  and  myself 
to  Richmond,"  he  added,  gravely. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  repeated  Musa,  in  a  low  voice. 

The  answer  was  a  monotonous  and  a  conventional  one, 
but  not  the  less  sincere  on  that  account. 

"And  now  before  we  part,  Miss  Percie,  I  must  thank 
you  for  the  happiest  season  I  have  ever  pasteed  in  all  my 
life,"  he  added,  in  an  earnest  manner. 

"You  are  very  good  to  say  so.  And  certainly  I  may 
return  your  words.  We  have  to  thank  you,  Mr.  Carew, 
for  much  enjoyment  this  summer  and  autumn.  Your 
presence  here  has  added  very  much  to  our  pleasures," 


The  Eve  of  Parting.  7 


answered  Musa,  compelling  herself  to  speak  with  con- 
ventional formality  and  politeness,  although  her  heart 
wis  beating  fast  and  her  voice  was  trembling. 

Perceiving  her  emotion,  and  drawing  a  favorable 
augury  from  it,  he  spoke  again  and  more  earnestly : 

"Musa,  will  you  make  me  happy  for  all  our  future 
lives?  I  love  you.  I  dare  to  hope  and  believe  you  love 
me.    Will  you  be  my  wife?" 

The  words  were  spoken.  But  oh!  so  calmly,  though 
so  earnestly.  And  he  was  looking  in  her  face,  pouring 
the  light  and  love  of  his  soul  into  her  eyes  while  he 
waited  her  answer. 

But  her  heart  was  throbbing  so  violently,  that  she 
could  not  speak  for  some  moments. 

He  waited  patiently,  walking  slowly  by  her  side,  and 
holding  with  his  right  hand  her  hand  that  lay  upon  his 
left  arm,  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  he  asked: 

"How  shall  I  interpret  your  silence,  dearest  Musa?" 

"Yes,"  she  murmured  very  slowly  and  softly;  "yes,  I 
will  be  your  wife,  for  I  love  you,  August." 

Forgotten  for  the  moment  was  her  solemn  oath  to  Ber- 
tie! Forgotten  even  the  terrible  secrets  of  her  life! 
Forgotten  was  her  very  -child,  as  she  gave  this  promise! 

He  drew  her  to  his  bosom,  and  sealed  their  betrothal 
on  her  lips,  murmuring: 

"And  I  promise  to  devote  my  whole  life  to  the  welfare 
and  happiness  of  my  beloved  wife.  It  was  to  ask  you 
this  question,  dearest  Musa,  that  I  brought  you  out  here, 
under  the  stars,"  he  added,  as  they  walked  on. 

They  walked  and  talked  for  more  than  an  hour  longer, 
but  their  further  conversation  would  be  interesting  to  no 
one  except  themselves. 

At  length  they  turned  to  go  home. 

As  soon  as  they  re-entered  the  house,  Musa  hurried 
up  to  her  own  room,  where  she  locked  the  door  and 
threw  herself  upon  her  bed,  suffering  all  the  horrors  of 
the  reaction  and  the  realization  of  her  position. 

"What  have  I  done?  Oh,  great  Heaven!  what  have 
I  done?"  she  muttered,  with  a  shudder,  as  sJhe  buried  her 
face  on  the  pillow,  and  thought  of  her  sacred  promise  to 
Bertie,  who  had  given  her  the  honest  love  of  his  young 
heart,  and  thought  of  her  little,  meek-eyed  child,  left 


8  The  Eve  of  Parting. 


aimong  strangers,  unacknowledged,  and  now  never  to  be 
acknowledged. 

For  she  could  not  force  herself  to  tell  the  unhappy  se- 
cret of  her  private  marriage  and  maternity  to  the  devoted 
lover  who  was  about  to  become  her  second  husband. 

Yes,  he  was  certainly  to  be  her  second  husband.  For 
her  mad  love  for  him  was  the  strongest  passion  of  her 
life,  and  she  was  fully  resolved  to  be  his  wife,  in  defiance 
of  any  ruin  or  misery  that  might  afterward  ensue  from 
the  marriage. 

She  had  come  to  this — to  marry  August  Carew,  what- 
ever might  be  the  consequence  to  herself  or  to  others. 

There  was  no  indecision  in  her  mind  now.  Her  reso-  * 
lution  was  unchangeable  as  fate. 

She  iwould  miarry  'him  because  all  other  evils  in  life, 
and  death  itself,  seemed  light  in  comparison  to*  the 
anguish  and  despair  she  would  suffer  in  leaving  or  losing 
him. 

There  was  'some  satisfaction  in  having  come  to  this 
fixed  determination. 

But  in  the  meantime  sihe  was  stung  and  tortured  by 
pity  and  remorse,  and  haunted  by  the  image  of  the  faith- 
ful friend  she  was  about  to  betray,  and  of  the  meek-eyed, 
lovely  child  she  was  about  to  discard. 

But  in  all  this  she  did  not  suffer  as  much  as  she  felt 
she  should  suffer  in  the  loss  of  him  she  loved  unto  death. 

She  tried  to  compromise  with  her  conscience  in  this 
manner.  She  resolved  first  to  write  to  Bertie,  and  re- 
quest him  to  release  her  from  her  rash  vow.  It  would 
be  a  mere  form,  she  knew,  for  however  it  might  pain  the 
young  duke  to  comply  with  her  request,  'honor,  gener- 
osity and  manliness  would  compel  him  to  do  it. 

But  her  child — her  little,  meek,  loving  baby!  Oh, 
with  what  anguish  she  thought  of  her!  Once  it  occurred 
to  Musa  that  she  could  take  the  little,  lovely,  dark-eyed 
darling,  and  lay  her  in  her  lover's  arms,  and  tell  him  the 
story  of  her  life,  and  trust  his  noble  heart  to  receive  her 
with  sympathy  and  affection. 

Aih,  if  she  had  only  followed  that  inspiration  of  her 
good  angel,  and  trusted  the  great  soul  who  had  given  her 
his  Whole  love  and  faith,  and  who  trusted  her  entirely. 

But  no.    She  shrunk  from  telling  him,  lest,  in  his 


The  Eve  of  Parting.  9 


high,  pure  sense  of  truth  and  honor,  he  should  judge  her 
too  sternly;  lest  he  should  despise  her  for  the  deception 
she  had  felt  forced  to  practice  in  the  world;  lest  he  should 
discard  her  and  never  see  her  more. 
The  thought  was  death! 

She  could  not  lose  him.  She  could  not  even  risk  the 
slightest  chance  of  losing  him.  She  must  have  him,  be 
the  consequences  what  they  migiht.  She  must  have  him, 
or  die. 

But,  oh!  her  little  child!  Well,  she  resolved  that  she 
would  not  desert  that  child.  Although  she  could  not  ac- 
knowledge her,  yet  she  would  not  desert  her.  She  would 
go  to  New  York  before  her  marriage  and  make  ample 
provision  for  little  Musette,  and  leave  her  with  the  good 
women  who  were  now  taking  care  of  her. 

And  she  hoped  that,  perhaps,  after  her  marriage  with 
August  Carew,  after  she  should  have  proved  her  de- 
voted love  to  him  as  only  a  wife  could  prove  it,  after  she 
should  have  secured  and  liveted  his  attachment  to  her- 
self, beyond  the  possibility  of  his  breaking  it,  then  she 
might  contrive  some  means  of  bringing  the  child  under 
her  own  roof.  She  might  adopt  it  as  an  orphan,  or  she 
might  possibly  bring  herself  to  confess  her  former  mar- 
riage, and  acknowledge  the  child  as  her  own. 

Come!  she  thought,  her  position  was  not  so  desperate, 
after  all.  She  would  write  to  Bertie,  and  obtain,  on  de- 
mand, a  release  from  her  promise  to  'him.  She  would 
provide  for  her  child.  And  she  would  marry  August 
Carew!  Whatever  might  happen,  she  would  marry  Au- 
gust Carew. 

Having  devised  this  thoroughfare  through  her  diffi- 
culties, and,  having  persuaded  herself  that  it  would  be  a 
safe  one,  Musa  arose  and  rearranged  her  dress,  and  went 
downstairs,  where  she  found  August  and  Mrs.  Carew 
tete-a-tete  in  the  oak-paneled  parlor. 

As  soon  as  Musa  appeare'd  at  the  door,  August  arose 
and  met  her.  He  drew  her  arm  within  his  own,  and  led 
her  up  to  the  elder  lady,  and  said: 

"My  dear  mother,  Miss  Percie  is  to  be  my  wife/' 

"The  mischief  she  is!"  was  the  reception  Kate  Carew 
gave  to  this  anouncement.  "Well,  I  suppose,  it  is  fate. 
So  have  it  your  own  way,  Musa,  though  you  might  have 


10 


The  Eve  of  Parting. 


done  better.  You  might  have  been  the  Duchess  of 
Montcalla.    But  have  your  own  way.    It  is  fate." 

"A  very  happy  fate!  Will  you  not  congratulate  us?" 
inquired  August,  with  a  smile. 

"Here  is  Mrs.  Shrewsbury;  it  is  more  in  her  line  than 
in  mine.  She  will  do  it  for  me,"  laughed  Mrs.  Carew, 
as  the  old  lady  entered  the  room. 

"No,  Kate,  I  entreat  you.  Stay!  Say  nothing  to  her, 
or  to  any  one  else,  for  the  present,"  implored  Musa,  in  a 
low  voice. 

"All  rigiht;  I  am  mum,"  answered  Mrs.  Carew,  laugh- 
ing. 

Madam  Chief  Justice  sailed  up  to  the  fireplace,  but 
did  not  take  the  seat  that  Mr.  Carew  promptly  placed 
for  her. 

She  had  come  to  break  up  the  circle,  she  said,  that 
every  one  might  go  to  bed,  and  get  a  good  night's  rest, 
so  that  they  might  be  up  early  in  the  morning,  in  time 
to  breakfast  comfortably  and  get  ready  for  the  boats. 

"Your  boat,  Kate,  for  Richmond,  usually  gets  here 
between  seven  and  eight  in  the  morning,  and  ours  for 
Washington  about  ten.  So  you  must  be  up  early,  at  any 
rate,  if  you  want  to  catch  it.  And  as  we  would  like  to 
see  you  off,  why,  it  follows,  as  a  matter  of  course,  that 
we  must  be  up  equally  early,"  added  the  old  lady. 

The  company  assented  to  the  prudence  of  her  advice, 
and  in  a  few  moments  bade  her  and  each  other  good- 
night and  retired  to  rest. 

Early  in  the  next  morning  the  whole  party  reas- 
sembled for  the  last  time  at  the  breakfast-table  of  Bay 
Beauty.  And,  after  a  comfortable  meal,  they  all  walked 
down  to  the  pier  to  wait  the  boat. 

"I  am  to  come  to  you  at  Christmas  to  claim  your 
hand,  dearest  Musa,  remember,"  whispered  August  Ca- 
rew. 

"Yes,  you  have  my  pledge,"  she  answered,  in  the  same 
low  key. 

"But  it  will  be  hard  to  stay  away  from  you  so  long. 
May  I  not  come  to  see  you  in  the  meantime,  once  or 
twice?"  he  inquired. 

"Come  as  often  and  stay  as  long  as  you  please,"  an- 


The  Eve  of  Parting. 


II 


swered  Musa,  who  loved  her  betrothed  too  devotedly  to 
use  any  finesse  on  this  occasion. 

"Heaven  bless  you  for  your  kind,  frank  words!  Good- 
by,  my  best  beloved,"  he  whispered,  pressing  her  hand 
before  he  stepped  forward  to  hand  Mrs.  Kate  Carew 
across  the  gangplank  into  the  steamer. 

In  another  moment  he  was  on  the  deck  of  the  steamer, 
which  was  just  putting  off  from  the  pier. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  Washington  steamer  came  puff- 
ing up  to  the  pier.  They  were  all  soon  on  board,  the 
boat  steaming  rapidly  before  wind  and  tide  for  the  en- 
trance of  the  Potomac  Eiver. 

After  a  cold  but  rather  pleasant  voyage  of  two  days, 
the  steamer  reached  the  wharf  at  the  foot  of  Sixth  street, 
Washington  City. 

Musa's  carriage,  horses  and  servants  awaited  her 
party  on  the  landing. 

Leaving  all  their  baggage  in  the  charge  of  a  footman, 
Ic  be  forwarded  to  the  house,  the  party  entered  the  large 
carriage,  and  were  driven  at  once  home  to  Vermont  ave- 
nue. 

After  tea,  Musa,  leaving  the  ladies  of  her  houshold  to 
their  own  devices,  and  leaving  her  servants  to  attend  to 
the  unpacking  and  arranging  of  her  wardrobe,  went  and 
locked  herself  up  in  the  library  to  write  to  Bertie. 

She  found  the  task  the  most  difficult  one  that  she  had 
ever  undertaken  to  do.  It  occupied  her  the  whole  after- 
noon. She  wrote  and  tore  up  many  letters  before  she 
got  one  to  suit  'her. 

In  writing  to  the  young  duke,  she  threw  herself  upon 
his  generosity. 

She  told  him  that  she  had  never  loved  him  but  as  a 
very  dear  brother;  she  reminded  him  that  she  had  never 
even  professed  to  do  so. 

She  prayed  him  to  remember  that  she  had  never  given 
him  any  reason  to  believe  she  could  ever  marry  him, 
though  she  bad  rashly  promised  never  to  marry  any  one 
else. 

She  entreated  now  to  be  released  from  that  promise; 
because  when  she  made  it,  she  did  not  know  her  own 
heart.  And  she  added  that  he  had  known  her  heart 
better  than  she  had,  when  he  prophesied  that  she  would 


12 


The  Eve  of  Parting. 


love  again„  This  prophecy,  she  told  him,  had  been  ful- 
filled.   She  could  not  help  it.    It  was  her  fate. 

Ending  as  she  had  begun,  she  threw  herself  on  his 
generosity. 

When  she  had  signed,  sealed,  and  directed  this  letter 
she  felt  that  she  had  done  a  very  cruel  and  selfish  thing. 
She  was  piereced  to  the  heart  by  compassion  and  re- 
morse. Yet  not  for  that  would  she  pause  in  her  course. 
She  must  break  with  Bertie,  and  she  must  marry  August 
Carew,  let  the  consequences  be  what  they  might. 

On  Saturday,  at  the  breakfast-table,  she  announced  to 
the  ladies  of  her  household  that  she  should  go  to  New 
York  on  Monday  for  a  few  days.  Her  sudden  and 
erratic  movements  had  ceased  to  surprise  her  friends. 
So  they  made  no  comment  beyond  expressing  a  wish  that 
she  might  have  a  pleasant  journey. 

On  Monday  morning,  Musa,  attended  by  her  faithful 
old  servant  Cassy,  took  the  early  train  to  New  York, 
where  she  arrived  late  in  the  afternoon. 

Without  stopping  in  the  city,  she  went  straight  to  the 
Hudson  River  train  of  the  hour,  and  ran  up  to  Inwood, 
where  she  arrived  just  as  the  sun  was  sinking  behind  the 
Palisades  on  the  west  bank  of  the  river. 

She  had  not  notified  the  inmates  of  the  cottage  of  her 
intended  arrival.  She  wished  to  take  them  by  surprise, 
and  see  how  she  should  find  her  child,  when  they  did  not 
expect  her. 

Intending  to  go  right  in  upon  the  family,  when  they 
got  up  to  the  top  of  the  wooded  bank,  on  which  the  cot- 
tage stood,  they  went  around  the  garden  wall,  and  en- 
tered by  the  back  gate. 

As  they  walked  up  a  path  covered  by  a  grapevine 
arbor  to  the  back  door,  they  saw  the  back  windows  sud- 
denly illumined,  as  if  the  lamps  had  just  that  moment 
been  lighted.    But  the  shutters  were  not  yet  closed. 

"Hush,  Cassy!  Tread  softly.  I  wish  to  look  in  at  the 
windows  and  see  what  my  baby  is  doing,  if  she  is  there/' 
whispered  Musa,  as  she  crept  up  to  the  wall. 

She  stood  on  one  side  and  peeped  through  the  lighted 
window,  and  this  was  what  she  saw  in  the  back  parlor: 

Near  the  window,  on  a  low  stool,  with  his  back  to  her, 
sat  Sam  Seaforth,  and  before  him  stood  her  dark-eyed 


The  Eve  of  Parting. 


i) 


baby,  whose  tiny  hands  Sam  was  holding,  while  he  talked 
to  her  and  tried  to  teach  her  to  stand  alone. 

"All  alony — lony!  All  alony  now  for  Sam!"  he  said, 
as  he  let  go  her  little  fingers  gradually. 

She  stood  alone  for  an  instant,  and  then,  with  a  de- 
precating little  laugh,  she  fell  forward,  with  her  hands 
grabbing  his  knees. 

He  was  trying  the  experiment  over  again,  when  Musa 
whispered  to  Cassy: 

'The  baby  is  all  right,  nurse.  See  how  healthy  she 
looks  and  how  happy  she  is.  Now  let  us  go  around  to 
the  front  door  and  ring,"  she  added,  with  a  delighted 
smile,  as  she  softly  withdrew  from  the  window  and 
passed  along  the  side  of  the  cottage  wall  and  around  to 
the  front  door. 

As  she  came  in  front,  quite  accidentally  she  saw 
through  another  lighted  window  into  the  front  parlor. 
And  this  is  what  she  saw  there:  Under  the  full  blaze 
of  a  hanging  chandelier,  seated  on  a  tete-a-tete  sofa,  was 
pretty,  rosy  Maggie  Seaforth  and — the  Rev.  Mr.  Wilks, 
ex-traveling  preacher  and  present  schoolmaster.  The 
parson  was  sitting  so  close  to  the  widow  that  it  was  im- 
possible to  be  mistaken  as  to  the  meaning  of  that  scene. 

Musa  smiled  as  she  hurried  by  the  window  and  rang 
the  bell  at  the  front  door. 

The  door  was  opened  by  Mary  Morris,  whose  bloom- 
ing face,  at  the  sight  of  the  visitor,  became  as  pale  as 
that  of  a  corpse. 

•'Why,  Mary,  what  is  the  matter?  Don't  you  know 
me?"  Musa  inquired. 

"Oh,  yes,  ma'am,  I  do  ;  I  know  you  well  enough.  And 
I  know  you  have  come  to  ta — ta — take  my  baby  away 
from  me!"  exclaimed  the  young  foster-nurse,  bursting 
into  tears  and  sobbing  aloud. 

"Why.  I  have  not  come  to  do  anything  of  the  sort, 
you  foolish  girl!  Come,  let  me  in.  Do  you  want  to 
keep  me  standing  out  here  in  the  cold  all  night?" 

"Oh!  I  beg  vour  pardon,  ma'am,  I'm  sure.  Do  come 
in." 

Mary  Morris  led  the  way  to  the  door  of  the  back  par- 
lor. 

"Stop,  let  me  go  in  quietly  by  myself  first/'  said  Musa, 


14  The  Eve  of  Parting. 

as  she  glided  past  the  young  woman,  and  softly  opened 
the  door  and  entered. 

What  she  saw  now  pleased  her  even  more  than  what 
she  had  first  seen  through  the  window. 

The  boy  Sam  Seaforth  held  the  child  in  his  arms  up 
before  a  fine  life-sized,  half-length  oil  painting  of  herself, 
Musa,  and  he  was  teaching  the  little  creature  to  kiss  her 
hand  to  her  mother's  picture  and  to  say  "mamma." 

"Kiss  hand  to  mamma.  Pretty  mamma!"  said  the  boy. 

And  the  baby  smacked  her  little  hand  with  her  lips, 
and  lisped,  "Mam — mam  " 

At  that  moment  the  boy  turned  around  with  the  baby 
in  his  arms,  and  the  child,  seeing  the  living  original  of 
the  picture  standing  there,  stretched  out  her  little  hands, 
crying: 

"Mam — mam!" 

"She  knows  me.  She  knows  me,"  said  Musa,  smiling 
through  happy  tears,  as  she  caught  the  child  to  her 
bosom,  and  sank  with  her  into  one  of  the  crimson  arm- 
chairs. 

"I  was  bound  not  to  let  her  forget  you,  ma'am.  'Cause 
it  was  my  duty  not  to,"  solemnly  said  the  lad. 

"That  is  right.  Always  try  to  do  your  duty,  Sam," 
said  Musa,  gravely. 

"Yes,  I  will;  but  for  all  that,  if  mammy  marries  the 
parson,  I  am  going  to  run  away  and  go  to  sea,  I  am  that! 
I  can't  stand  so  many  stepfathers." 

And  before  Musa  could  rebuke  him  for  his  reckless 
words,  some  one  came  out  of  the  front  parlor,  and  there 
was  the  sound  of  leave-takings,  and  the  noise  of  the 
front  door  clanging  to,  and  the  next  moment  Mrs.  Sea- 
forth came  into  the  back  parlor. 

"Why,  my  dear  Mrs.  White!  I  hadn't  the  least  no- 
tion that  you  were  here.  When  did  you  come?"  inquired 
Maggie  Seaforth,  in  surprise,  as  she  held  out  her  hand 
to  her  patroness. 

"I  came  by  the  evening  train — the  last  one.  I  have 
run  on  to  spend  my  baby's  birthday  with  her.  Don't 
you  know  she  will  be  one  year  old  on  Wednesday?" 

"Will  she  now,  indeed,  ma'am?  I  knew  it  was  some 
time  this  month,  but  I  had  forgotten  the  day.  La!  how 
time  flies!"  mused  Mrs.  Seaforth. 


The  Eve  of  Parting, 


15 


"Look  ahere,  white  'oman!"  'cried  Cassy,  to  the  nurse. 
"An't  yer  gwine  to  give  nobody  no  supper  to-night? 
Here  have  me  an'  my  mistess  been  travelin'  all  day  long 
on  de  realroad  cares,  'out  nuffin  to  eat  but  them  there 
nasty,  chalky,  windy  slabs  of  dry  dough  and  tar  as  they 
calls  pastry.  I  'clar  my  mistess  couldn't  touch  'em.  No 
more  could  I.  They  turned  my  stomick,  and  so  now 
we  want  somethin'  to  eat." 

"Oh,  indeed,  yes!  Mary  Morris,  if  you  will  attend 
Mrs.  White  to  her  room,  and  see  that  she  has  every- 
thing comfortable  there,  I  will  go  into  the  kitchen  and 
,  get  the  supper,  so  that  she  can  have  it  all  ready  by  the 
time  she  comes  down  again.  And  Sam  can  mind  the 
baby,"  said  Mrs.  Seaforth. 

Musa,  who  was  longing  to  get  some  of  the  railroad 
dust  and  soot  off  her  face  and  hands,  promptly  put  little 
Musette  into  the  arms  of  her  boy  nurse,  and  followed 
Mary  Morris  upstairs. 

When  she  went  down,  an  excellent  supper  awaited 
her  in  the  back  parlor.  And  when  she  sat  down  to  the 
table,  little  Musette  was  put  in  an  infant's  high  chair  and 
placed  by  her  side. 

Musa  retired  very  soon  after  supper,  and  took  her 
baby  to  bed  with  her. 

And  that  night  the  bereaved  young  foster-mother 
missed  the  child  from  her  own  bosom  so  much  that  she 
cried  all  night  about  it. 

"And  to  think  that  some  day  she  will  take  the  baby 
away  from  me  altogether,  and  I  shall  never  see  her 
again.  Oh!  it  would  kill  me!"  was  the  burden  of  all 
Mary  Morris'  thoughts. 

Musa  spent  nearly  a  month  at  Inwood,  receiving  all 
her  letters  through  Mr.  Locke,  who  forwarded  them 
from  Washington,  and  Mr.  Haughton,  at  whose  office 
in  the  city  she  regularly  called  for  them. 

During  her  stay,  Musa  made  an  ample  provision  for 
her  child,  and  constituted  Mr.  I.  V.  Haughton,  of  No.  8 
Judiciary  Place,  New  York,  guardian  of  its  person  and 
trustee  of  its  property. 

On  the  first  of  December  she  took  a  most  sorrowful 
leave  of  her  lovely  child,  pressing  it  fervently  to  her 
bosom,  gazing  into  its  dark,  loving,  wTistful  eyes,  kiss- 


16  The  Eve  of  Parting. 

ing  it  with  wild  ardor,  and  finally  placing  it  in  the  arms 
of  its  nurse,  and  earnestly,  passionately,  commending  it 
to  her  care. 

She  reached  home  the  next  morning,  and,  after  a  re- 
freshing toilet  and  a  nourishing  breakfast,  she  la>  down 
on  the  sofa  in  her  sitting-room  to  rest  herself,  while  she 
listened  to  the  old  lady's  news.  For  Mrs.  Shrewsbury 
liad  news  to  tell  which  she  had  wisely  deferred  until  after 
breakfast. 

First,  then,  the  marriage  of  her  son  with  the  heiress  of 
Pirate's  Peak  would  have  to  'be  deferred,  on  account  of 
the  death  of  Mrs.  Colonel  Carew,  which  had  just  oc- 
curred, after  a  short,  sharp  attack  of  pneumonia. 

Secondly,  Musa  would  lose  the  company  of  her 
"friend"  Miss  Sutton,  for  this  season,  because  that  young 
lady  had  just  been  called  to  the  sick  bed  of  her  mother, 
who  was  hopelessly  ill  of  consumption. 

Before  Musa  could  digest  all  this  news,  Mrs.  Shrews- 
bury drew  from  her  pocket  a  parcel  of  letters  tied  to- 
gether, which  she  handed  to  Musa,  saying: 

"And  here,  my  love,  are  the  letters  that  have  accumu- 
lated for  you  in  the  last  two  days.  Mr.  Locke  brought 
the  English  letter  here  last  night,  instead  of  sending  it 
on  by  mail,  as  he  knew  you  were  expected  home  this 
morning.''' 

"The  English  letter!"  exclaimed  Musa,  in  excitement, 
and  all  sense  of  fatigue  vanished  as  she  started  up  and 
held  out  her  hand  for  the  packet. 

Casting  all  the  other  letters  aside,  as  of  little  worth, 
she  picked  out  the  London  letter  and  hastily  tore  it  open. 

She  fully  expected  that  this  was  Bertie's  reply  to  her 
petition  for  a  release  from  her  promise  to  him,  and  that 
it  would  certainly  be  the  release  she  sought. 

It  was  indeed  a  letter  from  the  young  Duke  of  Mont- 
calla;  but  it  was  not  in  the  least  what  she  anticipated 
that  it  would  'be.  On  the  contrary,  its  contents  filled  her 
With  amazement. 


CHAPTER  II. 


bertie's  decision* 
Bertie's  letter  to  Musa  was  as  follows: 

Montcalla  House,  Kensington,  November  20,  18 — . 

My  Dearest  Musa  : — Your  letter  did  not  in  the  least  take  me 
by  surprise.  It  was  but  the  realization  of  my  forebodings,  the 
fulfillment  of  my  prophecy.  Do  you  remember?  Nor  did  it  give 
the  "offense"  that  you  deprecated. 

What  happened  is  -natural,  is  in  order,  was  to  be  expected.  I 
have  no  word  of  blame  for  that,  or  of  censure  for  you,  my  dearest 
friend,  whom  I  would  have  made  my  beloved  wife. 

(Now  let  that  pass.) 

But  though  your  communication  affected  me  neither  with  sur- 
prise nor  anger,  I  cannot  say  that  it  did  not  fill  my  mind  with 
anxiety  on  your  account. 

My  dear,  enthusiastic,  impulsive  Musa!  Is  the  man  upon 
whom  you  have  set  your  heart,  and  for  whose  sake  you  have 
thrown  me  over,  worthy  of  you?  That  is  the  question  for  me  to 
consider. 

Of  course  you  will  say  "Yes,"  with  all  the  earnestness  of  your 
soul — "Yes,"  and  a  thousand  times  "Yes." 

But  that  does  not  satisfy  me.  I  must  see  and  know  and  judge 
for  myself  before  I  release  you  from  your  promise.  If  I  find  him 
worthy  of  you  I  will  set  you  free  to  marry  him.  If  I  find  him 
unworthy  of  you,  I  will  hold  you  to  the  sacred  vow  sworn  upon 
the  Holy  Word,  and  which  you  dare  not  break. 

This  letter  goes  by  the  Sues,  which  sails  to-morrow  morning 
from  Liverpool. 

I  shall  follow  it  by  the  Darien,  which  sails  from  Southampton 
three  days  hence.  Watch,  therefore,  for  the  Darien,  and  expect 
to  see  me  within  twenty-four  hours  after  her  arrival. 

May  the  Lord  bless  you,  my  dearest  Musa,  and  may  He  guide 
us  aright.   Ever  your  faithful  friend,  Montcalla. 

Musa  let  the  letter  fall  from  her  hands,  while  she  cov- 
ered her  face,  and  shuddered  with  dismay. 

"Bertie  coming  here!  Bertie  resolved  to  see  and  sit 
in  judgment  on  August  Carew  before  releasing  me  from 
my  vow,  and  allowing  me  to  marry  him!"  she  thought, 
with  consternation. 

"And  he  may  be  here  to-morrow,  to-day,  this  hour! 
The  Sues  arrived  two  days  ago.  It  is  quite  possible  the 
Darien  may  nave  come  in  last  night  or  this  morning.  He 
may  be  here  any  moment.    Oh!  what  shall  I  do?  How 


18  Bertie's  Decision. 

shall  I  meet  Bertie?    And.,  oh,  good  Heaven!  how  shall 
I  bear  to  introduce  him  to  August?"  she  mentally  added, 
in  great  alarm. 
Then  she  rang  the  bell. 

"Bring  me  the  morning  papers,"  she  said  to  the  foot- 
man who  answered  the  summons. 

John  brought  the  Globe,  the  Union  and  the  Intelli- 
gencer, and  laid  them  on  the  table  before  his  mistress. 

Musa  took  up  the  last-named  paper,  turned  to  the 
"Marine  Intelligence,"  and  read: 

New  York,  December  3. 
The  steamship  Darien,  from  Southampton  on  the  23d  ultimo., 
arrived  at  this  port  last  night. 

"Bertie  will  be  here  to-night !  He  will  be  here  to- 
night!  Great  Heaven!  what  shall  I  do?  Yes,  he  will 
walk  in  upon  us  to-night.  He  said  I  must  expect  him 
within  twenty-four  hours  after  the  arrival  of  the  Darien. 
That  is,  I  think  he  did.  Let  me  look  and  be  sure,"  said 
Musa  to  herself,  as,  all  in  a  tremor,  she  took  up  his  letter 
and  read  it  over  again  to  confirm  her  thought. 

And  now,  in  this  second  reading,  she  perceived  and  ap- 
preciated that  which,  in  her  utter  self-absorption  during 
the  first  reading,  she  had  entirely  overlooked  and  ignored 
— that  was  Bertie's  utter  self-forgetfulness,  in  which  he 
refrained  from  all  reproach,  from  all  complaint;  and 
thought  and  wrote  only  of  her  happiness,  and  of  her  wel- 
fare. 

"Oh,  generous,  noble,  and  dear  Bertie!  How  much 
too  good  you  always  were  for  me !  Oh,  how  I  hope, 
how  I  do  hope,  you  may  soon  meet  some  young  lady  a 
thousand  times  prettier,  better,  worthier  than  I  ever  was, 
whom  you  will  love  a  thousand  times  more  than  you  ever 
loved  me ;  and  who  will  love  you — even  as  I  love  August 
Carew !"  she  exclaimed,  pressing  his  letter  to  her  lips, 
while  her  tears  fell  fast  upon  it. 

At  that  moment  the  footman  entered  with  a  card  on  a 
silver  waiter,  which  he  handed  his  mistress,  saying: 

"The  gentleman  is  in  the  drawing  room,  miss." 

"It  is  Bertie!"  thought  Musa,  with  a  spasm  of  the 
heart,  as  she  took  up  and  looked  at  the  card. 

But  no.  The  little  slip  of  enameled  pasteboard  bore 
the  name  of 


Bertie's  Decision. 


19 


"Francis  August  Carew." 

'Tell  the  gentleman  that  I  will  be  down  in  a  moment," 
said  Musa,  in  glad  surprise,  as  she  started  up  and  hurried 
to  her  dressing-room  to  adorn  her  beauty  for  him  whose 
presence  was  renewed  life. 

She  sat  down  before  her  dressing-table,  rearranged  her 
glossy  black  tresses  in  their  own  natural  ringlets,  and  then 
changed  the  soft  quilled  silk  wrapper  in  which  she  had 
lounged  all  day,  for  a  home  dress  of  crimson  moire, 
trimmed  with  deep  flounces  of  black  guipure  lace,  and  fin- 
ished with  a  bertha  of  the  same.  This  rich  dark  toilet 
was  lighted  up  by  jewelry  of  pearls  and  rubies. 

As  she  gave  a  last  look  at  her  mirror,  her  eyes  sparkled 
and  her  cheeks  flushed  with  delight  in  her  own  regal 
beauty,  and  in  the  power  it  gave  her  to  win  and  keep  the 
love  of  one  who  was  now  dearer  to  her  than  her  own  soul. 

Sparkling  and  glowing  with  life  and  love,  she  passed 
downstairs  and  entered  the  drawing-room. 

August  Carew  was  standing  at  one  of  the  front  win- 
dows, but  he  turned  immediately  and  came,  with  ex- 
tended hands  and  radiant  smile,  to  meet  her. 

"I  received  your  letter  notifying  me  that  you  would 
be  here  to-day,  dearest,  and  I  took  the  first  boat  that  left 
for  Washington.  I  drove  from  the  landing  directly  here. 
Have  I  come  too  soon?"  he  inquired,  when  they  were 
seated  side  by  side  on  the  sofa. 

"Oh,  no.  You  could  not  come  too  soon.  I  am  so  glad 
you  came  directly  to  us.  Mrs.  Shrewsbury  is  your  aunt, 
you  know.  And  it  will  be  quite  right  that  you  should 
stop  with  us  during  your  stay  in  Washington,"  answered 
Musa,  frankly  and  warmly. 

"Thanks,  dearest.  My  only  errand  to  the  city  is  to  see 
you.  But  for  you,  my  love  and  life,  I  should  scarcely 
ever  come  here,"  said  August,  holding  and  pressing  her 
hand. 

"Then,  of  course,  that  is  another  reason  why  you  must 
'bide'  with  us,"  said  Musa,  with  a  smile. 

"And  how  soon  shall  you  come  to  'bide'  with  me  for- 
ever, dearest?  That  is  not  settled  yet,  you  know.  How 
soon?"  he  earnestly  inquired. 

"Just  as  soon  as  may  be.  Oh,  August,  I  have  no  will 
to  part  with  you,  even  for  a  day.    I  have  no  one  in  the 


Bertie's  Decision. 


world  but  you.  I  am  so  singularly  alone,  without  par- 
ents, without  brothers  or  sisters,  without  even  collateral 
relatives.  I  have  no  one  but  you.  And  I  want  no  one 
but  you!"  she  added,  passionately,  forgetting,  for  the 
moment,  the  child,  who  should  have  been  the  first  in  the 
mother's  heart. 

"I  am  and  I  will  be  all  to  you.  I  swear  it,  dearest. 
But  when,  when  will  you  come  and  be  with  me  forever  ?" 

Musa  paused  and  reflected  for  a  moment. 

"See,  love,"  he  continued,  "I  am  preparing  to  receive 
you.  A  month  ago  I  put  a  squad  of  workmen  into  our 
Richmond  house,  to  renovate  it  thoroughly.  They  will 
have  finished  it  by  Christmas.  When,  dear  Musa,  will 
you  come  and  inhabit  it?" 

"We  must  speak  with  Mrs.  Shrewsbury  first.  She  is 
your  relative,  your  oldest  living  relative,  I  think,  and  she 
is  my  chaperon.  She  has  not  yet  been  told  of  our  en- 
gagement," replied  Musa. 

"She  must  be  told  to-day,"  added  August. 

And  even  as  he  spoke  the  door  was  swung  open  by  the 
footman,  and  Mrs.  Chief  Justice  Shrewsbury  sailed  into 
the  room. 

Mr.  Carew  arose  to  receive  her. 

"How  do  you  do,  August  ?  This  is  really  quite  a  pleas- 
ant surprise.  When  did  you  arrive  ?  How  did  you  leave 
Kate?"  inquired  Mrs.  Shrewsbury,  giving  her  hand  to 
her  nephew,  and  then  sinking  slowly  into  a  large  easy- 
chair. 

Mr.  Carew  answered  all  her  questions,  and  then  took 
the  hand  of  Musa,  and  led  her  up  to  the  elder  lady,  and 
said : 

"Aunt  Shrewsbury,  I  know  how  warmly  you  love  and 
esteem  Miss  Percie.  And  I  know,  therefore,  how  re- 
joiced you  will  feel  to  hear  that  she  is  to  be  more  closely 
connected  with  you  by  marriage.  Miss  Percie  is  to  be 
your  niece." 

Mrs.  Chief  Justice  was  surprised  out  of  her  usual 
stately  propriety. 

"What  is  all  this?"  she  said.    "Why,  I  thought  she 

was  engaged  to  the  "    Then,  recovering,  she  resumed 

her  self-command,  and  said,  more  slowly  and  guardedly: 

"I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it,  my  dear  August.    I  wish 


Bertie's  Decision. 


21 


you  both  much  happiness,  with  all  my  heart.  When  is 
the  wedding  to  come  off  ?    Has  the  day  been  fixed?" 

"The  day  has  not  been  fixed.  But  Miss  Percie  has 
promised  to  do  it  now,"  answered  Mr.  Carew,  with  an 
appealing  look  to  Musa. 

"When  will  it  be,  Musa?  You  know  that  I  should 
have  the  earliest  information,  my  dear  girl,"  said  Mrs. 
Chief  Justice. 

"Early  in  the  new  year,"  said  Musa,  hesitatingly — "the 
first  Tuesday  in  January." 

"Ah,  that  will  fall  on  the  seventh  of  the  month.  It  is 
a  very  short  time,"  commented  the  old  lady,  with  a  deep 
sigh. 

Musa  read  her  anxious  thought,  and  answered  it. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Shrewsbury,"  said  she,  kindly,  "our 
marriage  shall  not  break  up  this  home  that  you  have  pre- 
sided over  with  such  excellent  taste  and  tact.  We  shall 
keep  it  on  as  a  winter  home.  For  I  think  that  we  shall 
like  to  spend  the  season  in  Washington.  And  you,  1 
hope,  will  still  remain  in  it,  in  precisely  the  same  position 
and  under  the  same  conditions  as  now." 

"Thanks,  Musa,  my  love.  You  have,  indeed,  been  as  a 
daughter  to  me  ever  since  we  first  met,"  said  the  old  lady, 
with  more  feeling  than  any  one  would  have  given  her 
credit  for  possessing.  "But  what  will  your  husband  say 
to  this  arrangement?"  she  inquired,  rather  anxiously. 

"I  believe  that  I  have  spoken  August's  sentiments.  Is 
it  not  so?"  questioned  the  bride-elect,  turning  with  a  smile 
to  her  betrothed. 

"Assuredly,"  answered  Mr.  Carew,  with  cheerful 
promptitude. 

"And  think,  Mrs.  Shrewsbury,  how  pleasant  it  will  be 
for  us  all.  We  shall  all  gather  here  every  winter  as 
usual,  under  your  wing — Clarice,  Horace,  Armida,  Au- 
gust, myself  and  Kate." 

"That  will  be  very  pleasant,  my  love.  But  are  you  al- 
ways going  to  call  your  future  mother-in-law  'Kate?'" 
inquired  the  formal  old  lady. 

Musa  broke  into  a  silvery  laugh. 

"The  idea  of  Kate  being  a  mother-in-law !  Yes,  I  shall 
always  call  her  Kate.  I  am  not  going  to  make  an  old 
woman  of  bonny  Kate  by  calling  her  anything  else." 


22 


Bertie's  Decision. 


As  Musa  was  still  laughing  the  door  was  once  more 
swung  wide  open,  and  

"The  Duke  of  Montcalla,"  was  announced. 

While  Musa's  heart  was  throbbing  stormily,  Bertie  en- 
tered with  a  bow  and  a  sweeping  glance  that  seemed  to 
include  the  three  persons  present,  and  then  he  walked 
straight  up  to  Mrs.  Shrewsbury,  who  arose  to  welcome 
him. 

"Delighted  to  'see  your  grace,"  said  Mrs.  Shrewsbury, 
as  the  young  duke  paid  his  respects.  "So,  I  am  sure,  is 
Miss  Percie,  who  is  here,"  she  added. 

Bertie  turned  and  shook  hands  with  Musa,  and  tried  to 
meet  her  eyes,  but  they  were  lowered  to  the  carpet,  while 
her  flushed  cheeks  grew  suddenly  pale. 

"And  here  is  my  nephew,  Mr.  Carew,  of  Raven  Rocks, 
who  has  not  yet  had  the  honor  of  meeting  your  grace. 
Mr.  Carew,  the  Duke  of  Montcalla,"  continued  Mrs. 
Shrewsbury,  too  much  engaged  in  doing  the  honors  of 
the  house  to  observe  the  pallor  and  agitation  of  Musa. 

The  gentlemen  thus  presented  to  each  other  bowed,  and 
exchanged  some  words  of  courteous  greeting. 

And  in  another  moment  Bertie  was  seated  among  them. 

It  was  well  that  August  Carew  knew  nothing  of  the 
former  proposal  of  marriage  from  the  young  duke  to 
Musa  Percie.  Such  knowledge  might  have  somewhat  em- 
barrassed his  intercourse  with  the  visitor.  But  as  the 
case  now  stood,  his  manner  was  free  and  courteous. 

And  Bertie,  to  all  eyes  but  Musa's,  was  as  courteous, 
free,  and  gay  as  he  ever  had  been. 

Musa  saw  with  deep  compunction  that  he  had  lost  all 
the  vivid  bloom  and  freshness  of  his  youth,  and  that  the 
maintenance  of  his  easy  manner  was  an  effort  to  him. 

Mrs.  Shrewsbury  pressed  the  young  duke  to  remain  and 
dine  with  them.  And  Bertie  frankly  accepted  the  invi- 
tation. 

Mrs.  Shrewsbury  withdrew  from  the  room  to  interview 
the  housekeeper  and  cook,  in  honor  of  the  unexpected 
guests  who  were  added  to  the  family  dinner  party. 

Bertie  drew  Mr.  Carew  into  conversation  on  the  lead- 
ing topics  of  the  day — that  engaged  the  attention  of  all 
philanthropists  both  in  England  and  America — Emanci- 
pation of  the  Nations,  Elevation  of  the  Masses,  Education 


Bertie's  Decision. 


23 


of  Poior  Children,  Reclamation  of  Criminals,  Reform  of 
Prisons,  Revision  of  Laws,  and  so  forth. 

■Musa  listened,  occasionally  joining  in  the  conversation, 

As  Bertie  warmed  in  debate  he  seemed  to  forget  his 
troubles,  and  to  recover  all  his  former  youthful  vivacity 
and  earnestness.  There  was  nothing  of  the  ''languid 
swell"  about  this  hearty  young  English  nobleman. 

"He  will  forget  me  in  a  little  time.  He  will  throw  him- 
self into  the  grand  work  of  the  nineteenth  century,  and 
forget  me,  as  I  ought  to  be  forgotten — by  him,"  said 
Muisa  to  herself  as  she  watched  him. 

Dinner  came  on  in  due  course. 

And  in  the  evening  their  circle  was  augmented  by  the 
arrival  of  Mr.  Lyttleton  Locke  and  several  other  gentle- 
men. 

Bertie  talked  mostly  to  August  Carew  and  Mrs. 
Shrewsbury. 

He  told  them  that  he  should  soon  leave  Washington  to 
join  a  party  of  young  Englishmen,  who  were  at  present  at 
New  Orleans,  en  route  for  the  Plains,  where  they  in- 
tended to  hunt,  or,  as  Bertie  amended  his  speech,  to  try 
to  hunt,  the  buffalo.  He  added  that  he  did  not  expect  to 
be  in  London  again  before  the  meeting  of  Parliament,  in 
February. 

"When  you  will  take  your  seat  for  the  first  time  in  the 
House  of  Peers,"  said  Mrs.  Shrewsbury. 

"Yes,  madam,"  gravely  assented  the  young  duke,  with 
a  bow. 

Soon  after  this  he  arose  to  take  leave. 

But  last  of  all,  he  bade  good-by  to  Musa.  He  took  her 
hand,  and  detained  it  in  his  own  for  a  moment.  He  met 
her  eyes  in  one  thrilling  gaze  of  devotion,  of  renunciation, 
and  then  bowed  over  her  hand,  dropped  it,  and  left  the 
room. 

Musa  stood  witth  her  hand  fallen  to  her  side  as  he  had 
dropped  it,  her  face  bowed  upon  her  bosom,  and  her  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  carpet  in  such  a  strange,  oblivious  trance- 
like state,  in  the  midst  of  her  mixed  company,  that  August 
Carew  came  at  length  to  her  side  and  led  her  to  a  seat. 

"The  young  duke  is  a  great  admirer  of  you,  Musa," 
said  August  Carew,  as  he  stood  near  the  head  of  the  sofa 
upon  which  she  reclined. 


Bertie's  Decision. 


r 


"He  is  as  noble  by  nature  as  he  is  bv  birth.  He  is  the 
very  best  friend  I  have  in  the  whole  world,  except  your- 
self. And — he  saved  my  life  once,  at  the  imminent  risk 
of  his  own,"  sighed  Musa. 

"God  bless  him  !"  earnestly  added  August. 

The  next  morning  the  little  family  party  that  gathered 
around  the  breakfast-table  consisted  of  Mrs.  Shrewsbury, 
Musa  and  August  Carew.  Just  as  breakfast  was  over  the 
postman  knocked,  and  all  arose  from  the  table  and  sepa- 
rated to  read  their  letters. 

Musa  received  but  one,  and  that  was  (sealed  with  the 
crest  of  the  Duke  of  Montcalla. 

She  wkhdrew  to  the  privacy  of  her  own  room  to  read 

it. 

Gadsby's,  December  5,  18 — . 
My  Dearest  Musa: — I  have  seen  and  I  approve  your  choice. 
I  release  you  of  your  vow  to  me.    You  are  free.    Before  you 
receive  this  I  shall  be  en  route  for  New  Orleans.    I  cannot  trust 
myself  to  say  good-by  to  you  in  person.   But — God  bless  you. 

Montcalla. 

Musa  cried  a  little  over  this  letter,  pressed  it  to  her 
lips,  then  dropped  it  in  the  fire,  and  breathed  a  silent 
prayer  for  Bertie's  happiness. 

An  hour  after  that,  oblivious  of  Bertie's  renunciation 
and  sorrow,  arrayed  in  a  most  becoming  habit,  mounted 
on  a  fine  horse,  and  attended  by  her  lover,  she  was  can- 
tering briskly  along  the  margin  of  Rock  Creek,  enjoying 
her  morning  ride  as  she  never  had  enjoyed  it  before. 

August  Carew  remained  for  a  week  at  Vermont  ave- 
nue, and  might  have  lingered  longer  had  not  Mrs. 
Shrewsbury  given  him  a  hint  (that  the  strict  rules  of  eti- 
quette required  his  absence  just  now. 

Then,  laughing  at  these  absurd  "rules  of  etiquette,"  he 
reluctantly  took  leave,  to  remain  away  until  the  morning 
of  the  marriage,  when  he  should  meet  his  bride  at  the 
church. 

After  the  departure  of  August  Carew  the  preparations 
for  the  wedding  went  on  rapidly. 

About  one  thousand  invitations  were  sent  out  for  the 
ceremony.   And  about  one  hundred  for  the  breakfast. 

In  due  time  answers  came  to  all  these  special  letters. 
And  all  these  answers  were  acceptances,  except  in  one 


Bertie's  Decision. 


25 


caise — that  of  Armida  Sutton,  who  replied  that  she  could 
not  leave  the  sickbed  of  her  mother  even  to  officiate  as 
Miss  Percie's  first  bridesmaid. 

Musa's  eight  bridesmaids  were  then  selected  from 
among  the  youngest  and  prettiest  girls  of  her  acquaint- 
ance. And  they  all  accepted  her  invitation  to  take  part  in 
the  beautiful  pageant. 

Musa's  wedding  dress  and  trousseau  had  been  ordered 
from  a  New  York  house,  and  were  expected  to  arrive  a 
week  before  the  wedding  day. 

Mrs.  Shrewsbury  complained  that  it  was  awkward  hav- 
ing a  wedding  immediately  after  New  Year's,  as  it  inter- 
fered so  seriously  with  Christmas  and  New  Year's  fes- 
tivities. 

Musa  astonished  and  disgusted  Mrs.  Shrewsbury  by 
starting  off  on  the  morning  of  Christmas  Eve  for  a  fly- 
ing visit  to  New  York.  Her  ostensible  reason  was  to  look 
after  her  trousseau.  Her  real  reason  was  to  press  her 
child  once  more  to  her  heart,  to  spend  Christmas  with 
her,  and  to  load  her  and  her  protectors  with  Christmas 
presents. 

On  this  occasion  Musa  went  unattended,  not  even  tak- 
ing old  Cassy  with  her. 

She  reached  Inwood  on  the  -night  of  Christmas  Eve. 
She  found  her  little  girl  well  and  thriving  as  ever,  but,  as 
it  seemed  to  the  weeping  mother,  the  child's  meek,  dark 
eyes  looked  more  mournful  than  ever  they  had  looked  be- 
fore. They  had  a  loving,  pleading  expression  in  their 
dark  depths  that  almost  broke  the  mother's  heart  to  meet. 

'If  I  should  never  see  you  again!  Ah,  my  tender, 
dove-eyed  darling,  if  I  should  never  see  you  again !"  she 
cried,  weeping  over  her  child,  as  she  pressed  her  to  her 
bosom  that  night  when  they  were  alone. 

She  stayed  with  Musette  two  days,  and  then,  after  pas- 
sionate, heart-rending  embraces,  she  placed  her  in  the 
arms  of  her  foster-mother,  commending  the  child  to  the 
woman's  care,  and  set  out  for  her  return  to  Washington. 

On  arriving  at  Vermont  avenue  she  found  all  the  Ca- 
rews  and  all  the  Howards  there,  settled  in  their  rooms. 
They  had  arrived  the  day  before. 

After  bidding  them  all  welcome  to  her  home,  Musa  re- 
tired to  her  own  apartment, 


26 


Bertie  s  Decision. 


At  this  hour  she  was  no  happy  bride!  She  was  half 
heart-broken  from  the  parting  with  her  child  and  the  un- 
certainty of  her  future. 

She  relieved  her  oppressed  heart  by  a  copious  fit  of 
weeping,  and  then  she  arose  and  rang  the  bell. 

Old  Cassy  answered  the  .summons,  and,  entering  the 
room,  greeted  her  mistress  with  much  affection. 

"And  how  you  fine  de  little  gal,  honey?"  inquired  the 
nurse. 

"Well,  Cassy,  quite  well,  and  well  taken  care  of.  But, 
oh,  Cassy  !  oh,  Cassy  !"  exclaimed  the  young  mother,  with 
a  fresh  burst  of  weeping. 

"Now,  what's  de  matter  wid  you  now,  honey?  If  de 
chile  is  well,  what  you  cryin'  'bout?" 

"Oh,  Cassy !  oh,  Cassy !  I  feel  as  if  I  were  deserting 
my  poor  baby !  You  know  that  after  my  wedding  day  I 
shall  no  longer  be  my  own  mistress  as  I  am  now.  I  can- 
not go  and  come  long  journeys  as  I  do  now.  And,  oh,  if 
I  should  never  see  my  little  child  again  !"  exclaimed  Musa, 
abandoning  herself  to  a  paroxysm  of  weeping  and  sob- 
bing. 

Cassy  made  no  reply,  but  sat  down  on  a  low  stool, 
dropped  her  head  in  her  hands  and  groaned  at  intervals, 
until  her  mistress  had  wept  and  sobbed  herself  into  a 
state  of  comparative  quietness. 

Then  the  old  nurse  opened  her  mouth  and  spoke  like  an 
oracle. 

"F'om  what  you  say,  Miss  Musa,  I  take  it  as  you  an't 
done  tell  Marse  Gus  Carew  nufifin'  'tall  'bout  de  chile?" 

"Oh,  no,  no,  no,  Cassy !  I  have  told  Mr.  Carew  noth- 
ing." 

"Well,  den,  honey,  you  mus'  tell  him  eberyfmg." 

"Oh,  no,  no,  no,  Cassy!  I  could  not.  I  never  could 
tell  him  that." 

"Well,  den,  honey,  dere  an't  but  one  oder  way  to  do. 
You  must  gib  him  right  up.  Yes,  far  as  fings  has  gone, 
you  must  gib  him  right  up." 

"Oh,  no,  no,  no,  Cassy!  I  could  not.  I  never  could 
give  him  up.   It  would  kill  me  to  do  so." 

"Mv  good  laws  o'  me  alibe,  honev !  you  must  do  evether 
one  fing  or  else  the  t'other.   You  must  eider  tell  him  all 


Bertie's  Decision. 


27 


about  it,  or  else  gib  him  right  up.  There  an't  no  other 
way,  nohow." 

"I  cannot  db  either,  Gassy.  It  is  the  punishment  of  my 
folly,  and  the  curse  of  my  life,  that  I  cannot  do  either. 
For  to  do  either  would  kill  me!"  exclaimed  Musa,  pas- 
sionately, and  covering  her  face  with  her  hands. 

"Look  here,  Miss  Musa,"  said  the  old  nurse,  gravely, 
"I'se  a  rough  ole  'oman,  and  I  knows  it — one  ob  de  mos' 
roughest  as  ebber  was  made — but  I  knows  what's  right, 
and  what  you  ought  for  to  do,  'fore  you  ebber  stans  up  be- 
fore de  Lord's  altar  along  of  Marse  Gus,  or  any  oder  man, 
Now  listen  to  me,  Miss  Musa.  Is  you  a  listen'  to  me, 
honey  ?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  answered  Musa,  impatiently. 

"Well,  den,  here's  where  it  is,  honey.  You  an't  done 
nuffin'  wrong  yet.  You  was  lawful  married  to  de  Early 
young  gentleman,  which  I  myse'f  has  beard  him  call  you 
his  dear  wife  a  hundred  times  or  more.  An'  your  chile 
was  born  in  lawful  wedtlock,  as  you  calls  it.  Now,  honey, 
you  jest  up  and  tell  Marse  Gus  Carew  all  about  it." 

"Oh,  Casisy — — " 

"Now  don't  you  interrupt  me,  honey,  jest  yet.  Jest 
wait  till  I'm  done.  You  jest  up  and  tell  Marse  Gus  all 
about  it.  How  you  was  secretly  married,  and  how  he 
died,  dout  havin'  ob  a  chance  to  'knowledge  you.  And 
how  your  poor  baby  was  a  orphan  before  she  was  born. 
You  tell  Marse  Gus  all  about  it.  Nov/  do,  honey.  Den  it 
will  be  ofTen  your  mind.  Ef  you  don't  tell  him,  it  will  al- 
ways be  on  your  mind  like  a  millstone.  You  tell  Marse 
Gus  all  about  it.  He  lubs  you,  honey.  He'll  do  all  he  can 
to  make  you  happy.  He'll  act  like  de  honorable  gemman 
as  he  is.  He'll  be  just.  He'll  'dopt  your  little  chile.  Mind 
ef  he  don't.   And  lub  her,  too.   Mind  ef  he  don't." 

"Oh!  Gassy,  Casisy,  that  would  make  me  too  happy. 
Such  a  state  of  things  would  turn  this  earth  into  a  heaven 
for  me.  Eut  no!  It  is  impossible!  I  cannot  tell  him! 
He  thinks  that  I  have  never  been  married  before.  I  can- 
not run  the  great  risk  of  undeceiving  him.  I  know  not 
what  effect  that  would  have  upon  him." 

"Look  a  here,  honey!  I  an't  no  witch,  thanks  be  to 
goodness.  I  nebber  selled  my  mortal  soul  to  de  debbel  for 
onlawful  knowledge,  and  signed  it  wid  a  drap  o'  my  blood. 


28 


Bertie's  Decision. 


But  for  all  dat,  it  seems  to  me  as  I  can  see  trough  and 
trough  dat  man,  and  I  see  as  he  has  got  a  good,  true,  just, 
merciful  heart,  and  one  which  is  'voted  to  you.  Tell  him 
eberyfing,  honey,  and  he  will  believe  you  and  comfort  you. 
But  don't  'ceive  him,  whatebber  you  do,  honey,  ef  you 
wallys  his  lub.  I  don't  fink  as  an  hono'ble  gemman  like 
him  could  get  ober  being  'ceived.  But  tell  him  eberyfing, 
honey,  and  he  will  do  anyfing  you  want  him  to  do  to  make 
you  happy,"  pleaded  the  old  nurse. 

"Leave  me,  nurse,  for  a  little  while.  I  must  think — I 
must  think,"  said  Musa. 

"Yes,  honey,  think  about  it.  And  do  it,  too,  bless  you, 
and  you  will  be  happy,"  answered  the  old  woman,  as  she 
took  herself  out  of  the  room. 

Musa,  left  alone,  walked  up  and  down  the  floor  in 
deeply-perturbed  thought. 

"Oh,  if  I  could  tell  him  this  sad  story !  If  I  could  feel 
sure  that  he  would  receive  it  as  my  old  nurse  says  S  But  I 
cannot  be  sure.  No  one  can.  And  I  dare  not  tell  him — I 
dare  not  risk  losing  him.  It  would  kill  me  to  lose  him. 
Oh,  Heaven,  to  think  that  I  must  win  him  only  by  a  con- 
cealment !"  she  cried,  sinking  once  more  upon  the  bed1,  in 
an  agony  of  self-reproach. 

And  so  her  moral  sense,  roused  by  the  plain  words  of 
her  honest  old  nurse,  warred  with  her  inclinations,  making 
her  bosom  like  a  battlefield.  And  this  happened  not  once, 
but  many  times,  when  she  found  herself  alone.  But  at 
other  seasons,  when  in  company,  or  when  engaged  in  ac- 
tive preparations  for  her  marriage,  the  voice  of  conscience 
was  drowned  in  the  confusion  of  tongues  around  her. 

The  glad  New  Year  was  at  hand.  But  it  was  under- 
stood that  Mrs.  Chief  Justice  Shrew  sbury  and  Miss  Percie 
would  not  hold  their  usual  New  Year's  reception. 

In  fact,  they  could  not  well  do  so  without  seriously 
interfering  with  the  arrangements  for  the  grand  wedding, 
which  were  now  going  on  rapidly,  and  were  completed 
on  the  evening  of  Monday,  the  fifth. 

The  drawing-room  was  upholstered  in  white  and  sil- 
ver, the  dining-room  in  rose  and  gold,  and  the  recep- 
tion-room in  blue  and  silver.  The  profuse  floral  decora- 
tions seemed  to  have  transformed  each  room  and  hall 
into  a  temple  of  Flora, 


Bertie's  Decision. 


§9 


The  wedding  breakfast-table  was  set  in  the  long 
dining-room.  Its  decorations  were  wonders  of  artistic 
beauty. 

A  curious  and  beautiful  ornament  occupied  a  large 
space  on  the  center  of  the  table.  It  was  an  artificial 
miniature  lake,  formed  by  a  large  plate  of  looking-glass 
laid  flat  on  the  board,  and  surrounded  by  a  bank  of 
flowers,  that  were  reflected  in  the  mirror  as  in  the  clear, 
deep  waters  of  a  lake.  Upon  the  middle  of  this  mirror 
stood  the  wedding-cake,  in  the  form  of  a  rock  rising 
from  the  lake,  and  surmounted  by  a  temple  with  classic 
pillars,  wreathed  with  bright  and  fragrant  flowers. 

The  wedding  morning  dawned — a  brilliant,  dazzling, 
winter  morning.  The  family  in  the  house  on  Vermont 
avenue  were  early  astir.  The  bridesmaids  were  early 
on  duty,  but  they  waited  together  in  a  spare  chamber, 
until  the  hour  for  going  to  church. 

Clarice  Howard  claimed  it  as  her  especial  privilege  to 
dress  the  bride.  And  she  was  assisted  only  by  Musa's 
faithful  servants,  Cassy  and  Servia. 

Musa's  dress,  though  it  did  not  come  from  Paris,  was 
as  elegant  as  it  was  costly. 

It  consisted  of  a  rich,  heavy,  white  satin  dress,  made 
low  on  the  neck  and  with  short  sleeves.  It  was 
trimmed  with  a  bertha,  sleeve  ruffles,  and  deep  flounces 
of  point  lace.  Over  this  she  wore  a  train  of  white  Lyons 
velvet,  lined  with  white  silk  and  trimmed  with  swan's- 
down.  Her  ornaments  were  a  set  of  superb  opals,  set 
in  diamonds,  the  gut  of  the  bridegroom.  She  did  not 
wear  orange  flowers,  but  a  wreath  of  rich  white  tea- 
roses  crowned  her  beautiful  black  curls.  And  from  that 
hung  the  bridal  veil  of  fine  point  lace.  A  heavy  mantle 
of  costly  ermine  lay  ready  to  be  put  over  her  shoulders 
and  worn  during  the  drive  to  and  from  the  church.  But 
it  was  to  be  left  in  the  carriage  at  the  church  door. 

Musa's  bridesmaids  wore  rich  white  silk  dresses, 
with  fine  tulle  over-dresses,  and  wreaths  of  white  rose- 
buds. 

Clarice  Howard  wore  a  pa  le  blue  silk,  trimmed  with 
white  thread  lace,  a  white  Paisley  shawl,  and  a  white 
velvet  bonnet,  with  white  and  blue  flowers. 


3o  Bertie's  Decision. 

Kate  Carew,  in  half-mourning  for  her  cousin,  wore  a 

rich  black  velvet  dress,  mantle,  and  bonnet. 

Mrs.  Shrewsbury,  a  brown  satin  dress  and  bonnet, 
and  a  deep  sable  fur  cape  and  a  muff. 

Espirita  Carew  was  in  the  deepest  mourning  for  her 
mother;  but  she  laid  this  mourning  aside  for  one  day, 
lest,  she  said,  it  should  bring  ill  luck  to  the  bride,  and 
she  wore  a  lavender-colored  silk  dress  and  bonnet,  and 
a  white  fur  cape  and  muff. 

Six  carriages  were  in  attendance  to  take  this  company 
to  the  church,  which  was  very  much  crowded;  yet  so 
perfectly  still  was  the  assemblage  that  every  word  of  the 
impressive  marriage  ceremony  could  be  heard  in  every 
part  of  the  sacred  place. 

The  books  were  opened,  the  exhortation  was  read, 
the  momentous  questions  were  asked  and  answered,  the 
vows  were  made,  the  prayers  were  offered,  the  bene- 
diction bestowed,  and  all  was  over. 

Musa  Percie,  for  good  or  evil,  was  the  wife  of  Au- 
gust Carew. 

Many  friends  crowded  around  the  bride  to  offer  their 
congratulations;  but  all  noticed  that,  in  receiving  them, 
her  hand,  through  her  glove,  was  icy  cold,  and  her 
face  was  deathly  white. 

Mrs.  Shrewsbury  also  noticed  this,  but  attributed  it 
to  the  chilly  air  of  the  chancel,  and  to  the  fatigue  of 
the  ceremony;  and  she  whispered  to  her  nephew: 

"Put  an  end  to  this  scene.  Musa  is  almost  over- 
come." 

And  August  Carew  drew  his  bride's  arm  within  his 
own,  bowed,  and  led  her  through  the  crowd  and  out  of 
the  church,  and  put  her  in  his  own  carriage,  into  whicH 
he  followed  her.  In  a  few  minutes  they  drove  up  again 
before  her  house  in  Vermont  avenue. 

A  crowd  of  wedding  guests,  in  a  long  procession  of 
carriages,  followed  the  bride  from  the  church  to  the 
house.  They  soon  filled  all  the  rooms.  And  then  the 
brilliant  bustle  of  the  wedding  breakfast  ensued,  which 
lasted  about  three  hours.  And  then  the  bride  arose  and 
withdrew,  to  change  her  wedding  dress  for  a  traveling 
suit  of  crimson  Irish  poplin  and  s°.ble  furs. 

Musa  chose  to  receive  only  the  adieus  of  her  nearest 


Love  Strong  as  Death. 


friends,  and  so  she  took  leave  of  them  in  her  own  cham- 
ber. 

Then  she  went  out,  and  was  met  at  the  door  by  her 
husband,  who  was  also  dressed  in  a  traveling  suit. 

He  led  her  quietly  from  the  house  and  put  her  in  the 
carriage,  and  ordered  the  coachman  to  drive  to  the  Rich- 
mond boat.  For  they  were  to  spend  their  wintry  honey- 
moon in  that  Southern  city. 

While  Mr.  Carew  was  giving  minute  direction?  to 
the  coachman  Musa  was  settling  herself  comfortably 
among  the  cushions  of  the  carriage.  In  doing  s:  she 
saw  a  letter  in  a  white  envelope  stuck  conspicuously 
under  one  of  the  straps  on  her  right  side. 

Supposing  it  to  be  a  business  circular,  she  took  it 
and  opened  it. 

But  her  face  was  blanched  to  marble  as  she  read: 

False  woman,  cruel  mother,  perjured  bride,  do  you  madly  hope 
for  a  single  moment's  happiness  in  your  married  state?  Un- 
deceive yourself  ;  for  the  avenger  goes  before  you.  Nemesis  will 
meet  you  at  Richmond. 


CHAPTER  III. 

LOVE  STRONG  AS  DEATH. 

Musa  had  scarcely  time  to  thrust  this  cruel  note  out 
of  sight  in  her  pocket  when  August  entered  the  carriage 
and  took  his  seat  by  her  side. 

The  horses  immediately  started. 

Musa  lowered  her  thick,  brown  traveling  veil,  that  Au- 
gust might  not  see  her  pale  and  agitated  face. 

"Are  you  cold,  love?'''  he  inquired,  seeing  her  shiver 
and  draw  her  furs  around  her. 

''Yes:  the  day  is  turning  bitterly  cold,  I  think."  an- 
swered Musa,  in  a  low.  tremulous  voice. 

''And  you  are  overfatigued,  and  not.  therefore,  in  a 
condition  to  be  exposed.  There  should  have  been  a  hot 
brick  put  into  this  carriage.  Dear  love,  you  shall 
never  suffer  from  negligence  again,  now  that  you  have 
me  to  take  care  of  you.'''  said  August,  as  he  picked  up 
two  or  three  loose  shawls  that  lay  upon  the  front  seat, 


|2  Love  Strong  as  Death. 


and  awkwardly  wrapped  them  about  her  shoulders  and 
feet. 

On  arriving  at  the  boat,  Musa,  in  all  her  wrappings, 
was  hurried  on  board,  and  then  into  the  ladies'  cabin. 

She  took  the  first  opportunity,  when  she  found  herself 
unobserved,  to  draw  the  threatening  letter  from  her 
pocket,  and  put  it  into  the  fire  that  was  burning  in  the 
stove.  And  she  watched  the  paper  shrivel  up  and  con- 
sume to  ashes  before  she  shut  the  stove  door. 

Then,  with  an  effort,  she  controlled  all  outward  ex- 
pression of  the  intense  anxiety  she  suffered,  and  she  even 
forced  herself  to  converse  with  her  husband  with  seem- 
ing  ease  and  cheerfulness. 

They  had  a  very  cold  voyage  down  the  Potomac,  and 
down  the  Chesapeake,  and  up  James  River  to  Rich- 
mond, where  they  arrived  on  the  evening  of  the  second 
day. 

Mr.  Carew's  carriage  was  standing  at  the  wharf;  Au- 
gust handed  Musa  into  it,  and  gave  the  order: 
"Home." 

When  the  carriage  drew  up  in  front  of  the  Carew 
mansion  the  doors  were  thrown  open,  and  a  troop  of 
well-trained  servants,  headed  by  the  housekeeper,  waited 
in  the  hall  to  receive  the  young  master  and  mistress. 
August  led  Musa  into  the  house,  whispering  words  of 
fondest  welcome  to  her. 

"Mrs.  Watson  will  see  you  to  your  room,  my  dear," 
he  said,  indicating  the  housekeeper,  who  now  came  for- 
ward. 

Mrs.  Watson  was  a  respectable,  middle-aged  white 
woman,  who  at  once  offered  her  services  to  Musa,  and 
took  her  upstairs  'to  a  spacious  and  beautiful  chamber, 
furnished  in  rose-color  and  white. 

"How  lovely  this  is !"  said  Musa,  looking  around  with 
what,  under  happier  auspices,  would  have  been  delight, 
but  which  was  now  only  sorrowful  approval  and  tender 
gratitude. 

"Yes,  ma'am,  it  is  indeed  perfectly  lovely,"  assented 
Mrs.  Watson.  "And  Mr.  Carew  had  all  this  made  to 
order  under  his  own  direction.  And  he  selected  all  the 
little  things,  even  to  the  mantel  and  toilet  ornaments." 

Musa  shivered. 


Love  Strong  as  Death. 


33 


"You  are  cold,  ma'am.  The  weather  has  been  bitterly 
cold  for  the  last  two  days.  Come  to  the  fire,"  said  the 
housekeeper,  pushing  a  comfortable  armchair  up  to  the 
fireplace,  where  a  bright  coal  fire  was  burning  in  the  pol- 
ished steel  grate. 

Musa  sank  into  the  offered  seat,  and  stretched  her 
hands  out  toward  the  fire;  but,  ah,  the  chill  that  seized 
her  then  could  not  be  dispelled  by  heat! 

Nemesis — Xemesis  was  to  meet  her  at  Richmond! 
How?    When?    In  what  form? 

These  were  the  thoughts  that  seemed  to  turn  her  blood 
to  ice. 

Who  was  her  unknown  enemy?  How  had  that  enemy 
got  possession  of  her  secret,  and  thereby  got  control  of 
her  fate? 

She  could  not  conjecture,  unless  it  had  been  by  means 
of  her  lost  letter. 

While  she  sat  shivering  over  these  thoughts,  the 
housekeeper,  forgotten,  stood  waiting.  At  length  Mrs. 
WTatson  ventured  to  ask: 

"Can  I  be  of  any  further  use  to  ycu,  ma'am?" 

"No,  thank  you.  I  want  nothing.  You  can  go,  if 
your  duties  require  your  presence  elsewhere,"  Musa 
gently  replied. 

But,  before  the  housekeeper  could  withdraw,  steps  were 
heard  outside,  followed  by  a  rap  at  the  chamber  door. 

"It  is  my  baggage.  Will  you  open  the  door,  Airs.  Wat- 
Son?"  inquired  Musa. 

The  housekeeper  immediately  obeyed,  and  old  Cassy 
entered,  followed  by  two  of  the  menservants,  bearing  be- 
tween them  a  large  Saratoga  trunk,  which  they  set  down 
under  the  direction  of  their  conductress,  and  then  retired, 
followed  by  Airs.  Watson. 

Musa  said  to  Cassy: 

"Will  you  open  the  trunk  and  lay  out  my  maize-col- 
ored moire  antique?" 

"Oh,  yes,  honey,"  said  the  old  woman,  drawing  the 
bunch  of  keys  from  her  pocket,  and  proceeding  to  busi- 
ness. 

Musa  never  spent  much  time  over  her  toilet.  And  so, 
in  a  few  minutes,  she  changed  her  traveling  dress  of 
crimson  Irish  poplin  for  an  evening  dress  of  maize- 


34  Love  Strong  as  Death. 


colored  moire  antique,  trimmed  with  white  point  applique 
flounces,  and  with  bertha  and  sleeve-falls  of  the  same 
lace. 

She  wore  the  set  of  opal  jewelry  that  had  been  the 
bridal  present  of  August.  And  she  took  a  pale  tea  rose 
from  the  vase  of  flowers  on  her  dressing- table,  and 
placed  it  in  her  hair. 

She  was  ready  to  go  down,  but  where  was  August? 

He  was  closeted  with  "Nemesis,"  in  the  shape  of  Ar- 
mida  Sutton. 

At  the  very  moment  that  Musa  had  left  his  side  to  go 
to  her  own  room,  attended  by  the  housekeeper,  and  as 
he  himself  was  about  to  repair  to  his  dressing-room,  a 
card  was  put  in  his  hand  by  the  hall  footman,  who  said 
in  explanation: 

"The  lady  arrived  a  few  minutes  ago,  sir,  and  re- 
quested to  see  you  alone  as  soon  as  you  arrived." 

"  'Miss  Armida  Sutton!'  "  said  Mr.  Carew,  reading  the 
card.  "This  is  most  strange.  Where  did  you  show  the 
lady?" 

"In  the  crimson  reception-room,  sir." 

August  Carew,  without  a  moment's  delay,  went  to  a 
small  front  room,  on  the  right  hand  of  the  entrance  hall, 
known  as  the  crimson  reception-room.  He  opened  the 
door  and  entered  unannounced. 

A  glowing  coal  fire  in  a  polished  steel  grate  rather 
overheated  this  small  room.  Yet  Armida,  closely 
wrapped  in  furs,  sat  in  a  large,  cushioned  easy-chair  be- 
fore the  fire. 

"Miss  Sutton!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Carew,  scarcely  able 
to  repress  his  surprise  and  displeasure  at  her  inopportune 
presence. 

"You  are  astonished  to  see  me  here,  Mr.  Carew,"  she 
said,  rising  and  facing  him. 

"Indeed,  yes.  But  pray  resume  your  seat.  You  seem 
wearied,"  he  said,  as  he  noticed  the  paleness  of  her  face. 

"I  am  wearied,"  she  answered,  with  a  sigh,  as  she 
sank  again  into  the  large  armchair. 

"Why,  when  did  you  arrive?"  inqu-ired  Mr.  Carew. 

"But  a  few  moments  in  advance  of  yourself.  In  fact, 
I  left  Washington  and  came  down  to  Richmond  on  f&e 
same  boat  that  brought  yourself." 


Love  Strong  as  Death. 


35 


"Is  that  possible?  You  were  on  the  boat  with  us? 
And  we  did  not  know  it?  How  could  that  ha^e  been?" 
inquired  Mr.  Carew,  in  astonishment. 

"I  had  a  stateroom  in  the  lower  cabin.  And  I  never 
left  it;"  answered  Armida,  with  a  strange  smile. 

"Did  my  wife  know  that  you  were  there?" 

"No." 

''Did  she  expect  you  here?" 
"No." 

'''Does  she  know  that  you  have  arrived?" 
"No." 

''Pardon  me.  I  have  been  rudely  putting  questions, 
when  I  should  rather  have  hastened  to  notify  Mrs.  Carew 
of  the  presence  of  her  friend/''  said  Mr.  Carew,  as  he 
stretched  his  hand  toward  the  bell. 

"Stop!"  exclaimed  Armida,  arresting  his  hand. 

He  paused  and  gazed  at  her  now  in  undisguised  amaze- 
ment. 

"Stop.  Mr.  Carew.  My  visit  is  to  yourself  alone.  I 
requested  to  see  you  for  a  few  moments  alone.  I  have 
something  of  the  most  vital  importance  to  yourself  to 
say,  but  you  had  better  sit  down,  sir.  I  cannot  talk  to 
a  man  who  stands  and  srares  at  me." 

"I  beg  pardon,"  said  Mr.  Carew.  And  he  sat  down, 
immediately  attentive. 

"'In  the  first  place,  Mr.  Carew,  I  must  ask  you  whether 
or  not  you  received  certain  important  letters,  postmarked 
Rockville?"  inquired  Armida. 

''Anonymous  letters?"  questioned  Mr.  Carew,  in  his 
turn. 

"Yes,  necessarily  anonymous." 

''I  did,"  grimly  replied  August  Carew. 

"And — read  them?"  exclaimed  Armida,  in  surprise. 

<lXo,  Miss  Sutton.  I  read  only  the  first  one.  It 
touched  the  honor  of  a  lady  I  revere.  As  soon  as  I 
gathered  its  meaning  I  threw  it  into  the  fire.  And  the 
half-dozen  or  more  letters  in  the  same  handwriting  that 
followed  it  at  intervals  I  burned  as  they  came,  without 
even  opening  them." 

"I  am  sorry  you  did  that.  And  I  think,  before  our 
interview  is  ended,  that  you  will  be  sorry  also."  said  Ar- 
mida, gravely.    "I  wrote  those  anonymous  letters  frem 


|6  Love  Strong  as  Death. 


Rockville,"  she  added,  fixing  her  cold  blue  eyes  full  up#n 

his  face. 

"I  am  deeply  shocked  to  hear  you  say  it,  Miss  Sutton." 

"I  wished  to  warn  you  of  a  great  peril  to  your  peace 
and  honor.  I  wished  to  save  you  from  great  sorrow  and 
humiliation.  If  you  had  deigned  to  read  those  letters 
you  would  have  been  warned,  and  must  have  been  saved 
It  was  a  very  delicate  matter  for  a  lady,  especially  for  a 
young  unmarried  lady,  to  interfere  in.  Nothing  but  the 
highest  sense  of  duty  urged  me  to  move  in  such  a  mat- 
ter. And  at  first  I  confess  that  I  was  too  timid  to  sign 
my  name  to  my  notes  of  warning.  I  now  deeply  regret 
my  own  want  of  moral  courage  and  your  want  of  faith. 
And  I  come  now,  with  great  pain,  to  repair,  as  far  as  I 
am  able,  the  evil  that  my  moral  cowardice  and  your 
distrust  have  wrought.  Though,  indeed,  I  fear  it  is  too 
late  to  do  any  good,  except  for  the  poor,  forsaken  child." 

"Child?"  echoed  Mr.  Carew. 

"Yes,  Musa  Percie's  poor,  forsaken  child." 

"Miss  Sutton!" 

"Mr.  Carew?" 

"You  are  a  lunatic.  And  it  is  only  because  I  am  now 
sure  that  you  are  a  lunatic  that  I  do  not  " 

"Show  me  the  door?  Well,  yes;  I  expected  some- 
thing like  that.  But  before  you  show  me  the  door,  Mr. 
Carew,  will  you  please  to  read  this,  and  form  your  own 
opinion  on  it,"  she  said,  placing  an  enveloped  letter  in 
his  hand. 

"Is  it  anonymous  ?"  he  curtly  demanded. 
"No,  indeed.    Read  it." 

He  looked  at  the  envelope.  It  was  postmarked  New 
York,  February  ist.- 

He  opened  it,  and  read  as  follows: 

Willow  Cottage,  Harlem,  N.  Y..  February  I,  18 — . 
My  Dear  Mrs.  White: — I  write  to  inform  you  that  your  babv 
is  very  ill.  She  was  taken  in  the  night  with  her  throat.  I  sent 
for  the  doctor  this  morning.  And  he  prescribed  for  her,  but  she 
is  no  better.  I  write  to  you  by  the  very  first  mail.  Old  Cassy 
thinks  that  you  had  better  come  on  immediately.  In  the  mean- 
time I  and  the  doctor  will  do  all  that  we  can  to  save  her.  Re- 
spectfully yours,  Margaret  Seaforth. 


"And  pray,  what  has  this  letter  to  do  with  me  or  my 


Love  Strong  as  Death.  37 


wife?"  sternly  demanded  August  Carew,  when  he  had  fin- 
ished the  reading. 

"Merely  this,"  coolly  responded  Armida — "that  Musa 
Percie  and  Mrs.  White  are  one  and  the  same  person. 
Her  child  is  at  nurse  with  a  poor  widow  named  Mar- 
garet Seaforth,  the  writer  of  that  letter,  and  who  knows 
the  child's  mother  only  as  Mrs.  White.  Mrs.  Seaforth 
lived  at  Willow  Cottage,  Harlem,  where  she,  assisted 
by  Musa's  confidential  servant,  old  Cassy,  took  care 
of  the  deserted  babe.  Since  that  I  have  discovered, 
by  following  up  the  clew,  that  the  widow  Seaforth  has 
removed  with  her  charge  to  a  house  called  the  Brown 
Cottage  at  Inwood,  on  the  Hudson.  Old  Cassy  re- 
turned to  her  mistress  about  the  time  of  that  removal." 

"Miss  Sutton,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Carew,  rousing  him- 
self from  the  spellbound  state  in  which  he  had  listened  to 
her  words,  "I  do  not  believe  one  syllable  of  the  atrocious 
calumnies  you  have  uttered  against  the  pure  name  of  my 
beloved  wife.  Nothing  but  a  suspicion  of  your  insanity 
has  led  me  to  endure  your  presence  here  thus  long, 
and  now  " 

"You  wish  to  show  me  out?  Do  not  take  that 
trouble.  I  am  going.  But  show  that  letter  to  your 
wife.  Watch  her  as  she  reads  it.  Notice  how  she  looks, 
what  she  says.  And,  oh!  when  by  her  looks  and  ac- 
tions, if  not  by  her  words,  she  shall  have  confessed 
hei  sin — however  you  may  see  fit  to  deal  with  her — 
exhort  her,  I  beg  you,  to  atone  for  the  past  by  taking 
care  of  her  innocent  child.  Tell  her  that  deeply  as 
she  has  sinned  " 

"I  will  hear  no  more!"  fiercely  interrupted  August 
Carew.  "I  have  listened  too  long  to  these  infamous 
slanders.  I  will  not  hear  another  word.  I  shall,  in- 
deed, take  this  letter  to  my  beloved  and  honored  wife, 
but  it  will  only  be  to  consult  with  her  how  best  to 
deal  with  her  calumniators.  And  now,  Miss  Sutton, 
leave  my  house  at  once,  and  never  return  to  it,  lest 
I  should  forget  that  I  am  a  gentleman,  and  that  you 
are,  or  ought  to  be,  a  lady." 

"Oh,  I  am  going.  Never  fear  that  I  shall  trouble 
you  again.  Show  that  letter  to  your  wife!  Do,  Mr. 
Carew !    Good-ni  srh  t" 


38  Love  Strong  as  Deathu 


And  with  a  mocking  courtesy  Armida  Sutton  left  the 
room  and  the  house. 

August  Carew  had  never  been  in  such  a  rage  in  all 
his  life. 

If  any  man  had  spoken  and  acted  as  Armida  Sutton 
had  done — well,  there  would  probably  have  'been  a  trial 
for  murder,  and  the  jury  would  have  acquitted  the  pris- 
oner without  leaving  their  seats. 

Musa  sat  still  in  her  chamber,  waiting  for  August 
to  come  and  take  her  down  to  dinner. 

She  thought  that  he  was  very  long  in  coming,  and 
she  arose  and  changed  the  tea  rose  in  her  hair  for  a 
fresher  one  from  the  vase. 

And  then,  just  as  she  resumed  her  seat,  the  door 
opened,  and  her  husband  entered. 

She  arose  at  once  to  accompany  him  downstairs. 

But  he  stopped  her  by  lifting  his  hand. 

"No,  sit  still,  my  love.  I  have  something  curious  to 
show  you,  and  something  still  more  curious  to  tell  you. 
You  will  soon  see  that  you  will  have  to  use  discretion, 
my  beloved,  in  the  choice  of  your  associates,  and  even 
in  the  distribution  of  your  charities,"  he  said-  as  he  .drew 
a  seat  to  her  side  and  unfolded  the  letter  in  his  hand. 

She  looked  at  him  with  smiling  eyes,  for  she  thought 
he  was  going  to  admonish  her — as  her  old  lawyer  guard- 
ian so  often  did — on  her  bad  habit  of  indiscriminate  and 
excessive  alms-giving. 

"Will  you  read  this  letter,  my  love,  and  tell  me  who 
is  the  Mrs.  White  and  who  is  the  child  referred  to  in 
it?"  he  gently  inquired,  putting  the  letter  in  his  wifels 
hands. 

The  next  instant  he  was  appalled  by  the  effect  of  his 
own  act. 

Musa's  head  fell  back  against  her  chair;  her  face  grew 
ghastly  in  its  awful  pallor;  her  features  were  drawn  with 
anguish;  her  hands  fell  helpless  by  her  side. 

"Musa — Musa,  my  dearest!  what  is  all  this?"  Cried 
August  Carew,  starting  up  and  bending  over  her  in 
alarm.    "Speak  to  me,  dear  wife!" 

"I  was  born  with  the  curse  upon  me!  I  was  born 
to  bring  ruin  on  myself  and  on  all  I  love!  I  Was  born 
with  the  curse  upon  m§,  and  the  curse  is  fulfilled  to- 


Love  Strong  as  Death.  39 


day!"  she  wailed,  in  a  voice  of  such  utter  woe  that 
her  husband  was  appalled  as  he  heard  her. 

Yet  not  even  now,  when  gazing  on  her,  did  he  for 
one  instant  suspect  her  of  any  wrong-doing.  He  was 
deeply  troubled  by  her  misery. 

"Great  Heaven,  Musa!"  he  cried,  "who  is  this  erring 
woman  in  whose  case  you  take  deep  an  interest  as 
to  make  it  your  own? — for  whjm  you  agonize  as  for 
yourself,  or  your  sister?" 

"Oh-h-h !"  she  groaned,  "that  case  is  mine.  Thai 
erring  woman  is  myself.  Now  curse  me!  kill  me!  I  am 
ready  to  die." 

He  recoiled  from  her  and  dropped  into  his  chair,  com- 
pletely overcome.  His  agony  was  as  great  as  her  own, 
and  the  greatest  part  of  it  was  his  deep  pity  for  her 
misery;  for  he  loved  her,  he  loved  her,  aad  he  knew 
beyond  all  peradventure  that  she  loved  him  utterly. 

There  was  a  heavy  silence  between  them,  broken  only 
by  her  deep  convulsive  sobs,  that  rent  her  husband's 
heart. 

Oh,  what  a  coming  home  was  this!  The  serpent  had 
entered  their  Eden,  and  its  beauty  and  peace  were  de- 
vastated and  destroyed. 

At  length  she  ventured  an  anxious,  fearful  glance 
at  his  face. 

The  love,  pity,  horror  and  utter  misery  of  its  expres- 
sion shocked  her  out  of  all  feeling  for  her  own  trouble. 
She  could  suffer,  but  she  could  not  endure  to  see  him 
suffer!  And  now,  besides,  she  saw  that  in  her  wild,  de- 
spairing self-accusation  she  had  given  him  an  impres- 
sion of  her  fault,  darker,  deeper,  fouler  than  the  truth 
warranted.  She  must  set  that  right  at  once;  for  oh! 
she  could  not  rest  for  an  instant  under  such  a  shame- 
ful ban,  and  she  could  not  bear  to  see  him  suffer  so! 

She  started  from  her  chair  and  dropped  at  his  feet, 
and  clasped  his  knees. 

"August!  August!  look  at  me!"  she  prayed,  gazing 
up  to  him. 

But  though  he  did  not  repulse  her,  his  hands  covered 
his  face. 

"August!  August!  look  at  me,  she  prayed,  in  anguish. 
"Do  not  kneel  to  me,  my  lost  love!    I  cannot  bear  to 


40  Love  Strong  as  Death. 


fiee  you  there,  so  low,"  he  said,  with  sorrowful  tender- 
ness. "I  have  no  reproaches  for  you,  Musa.  Heaven 
knows  that  I  have  only  love  and  pity  for  you — though 
we  must  part  to-night,  Musa,  and  part — forever!" 

"Oh,  no,  no,  no!  We  must  not  part!  I  cannot 
leave  you!  It  would  break  my  heart!"  she  cried,  wild 
with  anguish. 

"We  must  part,  Musa,  though  our  parting  should 
break  both  our  hearts — as  it  will!"  he  added,  in  a  chok- 
ing voice. 

She  solbbed  aloud,  and  clung  to  his  knees,  but  found 
no  voice  to  answer  him. 

"Listen,  Musa!  My  love,  I  shall  love  forever,  not- 
withstanding ail.  Listen,  I  will  do  all  that  I  can  to 
help  and  shield  you  in  this  trial.  I  shall  leave  here  to- 
night "  his  voice  broke  down  with  emotion,  and  noth- 
ing but  her  heart-rending  sobs  were  heard  for  a  few 
moments,  until  he  recovered  himself  and  resumed. 

"I  shall  leave  this  house  to-night  upon  some  plea  of 
urgent  necessity.  'Urgent  necessity!'  That  will  be  a 
true  plea.  And  you  must  remain  here  for  the  present, 
until  I  can  devise  some  means  of  effecting  a  permanent 
separation,  without  publicity  and  without  detriment  to 
your  name  and  fame." 

"Oh,  what  do  I  care  for  my  name  and  fame  if  I 
have  not  you?"  she  wildly  broke  forth.  "What  do  I 
care  for  my  life  or  soul?  I  swear  to  you,  August, 
that  if  I  lose  you  I  will  kill  myself  within  the  next  hour.  I 
will  rush  away  and  hurl  myself  from  some  precipice,  or 
into  some  river,  or  across  the  track  of  some  railway 
train!    I  swear  it  before  high  Heaven!" 

"Oh,  wild  and  reckless  and  ungovernable  nature! 
How  shall  I  deal  with  you?"  said  August,  with  a  groan. 

"Listen  to  me!  Hear  me!  Hear  before  you  judge! 
Oh,  August,  do  not  think  worse  of  me  than  I  deserve 
- — than  I  could  ever  have  deserved!"  she  cried,  clinging 
to  his  knees,  and  dropping  her  beautiful,  disheveled  head 
upon  her  clinging  hands. 

"Heaven  knows  that  I  wish  to  believe  the  best  of  you, 
Musa.  No  lips  but  your  own  should  have  dared  to  ac- 
cuse you  to  me  without  rebuke.  From  no  lips  but  your 
Own  would  I  have  believed  " 


Love  Strong  as  Death.  41 


His  voice  broke  down  again,  and  he  covered  his 
agonized  face  with  his  hands. 

"But  you  have  received  a  wrong  impression  from  my 
words.  You  have,  indeed,  dearest.  Oh,  listen  to  me, 
August,  before  you  act  upon  your  fatal  sentence  of — 
separation!"  she  gasped,  as  if  the  last  word  had  suf- 
focated her. 

"Then  rise,  Muisa,  and  sit  beside  me.  I  tell  you  that  I 
cannot  endure  to  see  you  there,  so  low.  It  humiliates  me, 
as  well  as  yourself,"  he  said,  taking  both  her  hands  in 
both  of  his,  and  raising  her  to  her  feet. 

She  sat  down  beside  him,  and  dropping  her  head  upon 
his  shoulder,  whispered : 

"August,  will  you  listen  to  my  story?" 

"Yes,  Musa." 

"Will  you  believe  it?" 

"Yes,  for  I  kndw  you  to  be  a  truthful  woman." 
"Notwithstanding  that  I  kept  a  fatal  secret  from  you  ?" 
"Notwithstanding  that." 

"Noble,  faithful  heart,  I  will  speak  to  you  as  to 
Heaven.   August,  do  you  know  that  I  love  you?" 

"Beyond  all  peracventure,  I  know  that  you  love  me.  I 
have  never  doubted  your  love.  I  never  shall  doubt  it, 
though  we  part." 

"I  doubt  very  much  whether  we  shall  part,  my  love,  my 
king.  I  doubt  it  very  much,"  murmured  Musa,  with  ten- 
der gravity.  "August,  will  you  believe  me  when  I  tell 
you,  when  I  swear  to  you,  that  I  never  loved  until  I  met 
you,  unless — unless  the  gentle  affection  I  bore  my  friends 
could  be  called  love?" 

"You  never  loved  any  one  before  me  ?"  echoed  August, 
in  a  low  voice. 

"Heaven  knows  that  I  never  did." 

"Then  how,  oh,  Heaven!  how  could  you  have  fallen 
from  the  glory  of  your  womanhood  ?"  he  groaned,  in  an 
almost  inaudible  voice. 

"I  have  not  fallen,"  she  answered,  firmly.  "You  misin- 
terpreted that  wild  confession.  You  did,  indeed.  I  have 
not  fallen,  August;  but  oh!  I  have  bitterly  deceived  and 
wronged  you." 

"I  can  scarcely  understand  you,  Musa." 

"I  am  going  to  make  it  clear.   I  am  going  to  tell  you 


42  Love  Strong  as  Death. 


the  whole  sad  story.  It  seems  so  easy  to  do  that  now, 
which  it  seemed  so  difficult,  so  impossible  to  do  before. 
August,  the  whole  of  my  offense  against  you  was  this — in 
concealing  from  you  the  fact  of  my  former  marriage." 

"Your  former  marriage!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Carew,  nearly 
stupefied  by  this  announcement. 

"Yes,  August.  I  had  been  a  wife,  and  I  Was  a  mother 
and  a  widow  when  you  married  me." 

"Musa,  you  astonish  me  by  this  intelligence.  Yet  I 
thank  Heaven,  from  my  soul  I  thank  Heaven  that  this  is 
so,  rather  than  the  terrible  suspicion  your  own  self-accusa- 
tion aroused  should  be  true.  Now  tell  me  all  about  it. 
Who  was  the  man?  Why  did  you  marry  him  without 
love  ?  And  why  was  the  marriage  kept  a  secret  from  all 
the  world  as  well  as  from  me?"  he  inquired,  as  he  settled 
himself  to  listen. 

And  then  with  her  beautiful  face  hidden  on  his  shoul- 
der, and  her  shining,  purple-black  ringlets  flowing  over 
his  bosom,  she  told  him  the  whole  of  her  sad  story,  with 
scrupulous  exactness,  from  beginning  to  end ;  then  said : 

"And  now,  August,  I  have  told  you  all,  everything.  I 
have  not  a  secret  from  you  in  the  world.  Do  you  believe 
me?" 

'  From  my  soul  I  do.  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should 
doubt  you,"  he  answered,  earnestly. 

"And  oh,  August,  when  I  kept  the  secret  of  my  former 
marriage  from  you,  Heaven  knows  that  I  did  it  from  the 
great  love  I  bore  you.  I  loved  you  so,  oh,  I  loved  you  so ! 
I  wanted  to  be  your  wife,  your  own,  and  to  be  with  you 
forever  at  all  cost.  I  did  not  dare  to  tell  you  the  secret  of 
my  former  marriage,  because  I  could  not  prove  it,  and  I 
did  not  know  how  you  would  receive  the  news  so  unex- 
pected. I  feared  to  startle  you,  to  repel  you,  to  lose  you, 
August.  And  oh  !  to  have  lost  you  would  have  been  death, 
and  wore  than  death,  to  me !  I  did  not  dare  to  risk  losing 
you  by  telling  you  my  secret.  I  kept  it  from  you  to  the 
last,  August.  But  oh !  none  but  the  Searcher  of  All 
Hearts  knows  how  terribly  I  have  suffered  in  keeping 
that  secret  from  you." 

"I  know  it,  my  love,  I  know  it.  Ah !  Musa,  if  you  had 
but  trusted  my  heart !  I  would  have  received  your  confi- 
dence then,  as  I  receive  it  now.  I  would  have  believed  your 


Love  Strong  as  Death. 


43 


own  account  of  your  marriage,  as  I  believe  it  now.  And 
you.  oh,  my  love,  would  have  been  spared  so  much  of 
anguish,"  he  said,  as  he  tenderly  caressed  her. 

"Yes,  but  I  have  deserved  every  pang  that  I  have  suf- 
fered. I  sinned  against  you  and  against  love.  I  was  an 
infidel  toward  you  and  toward  love.  I  could  not  trust  you 
or  your  love  with  my  secret.  And  so  that  secret,  like  a 
poisoned  arrow,  has  been  rankling  in  my  bosom  all  these 
months.  And  I  deserved  it  ah.  I  do  not  ask  you  to  for- 
give me,  my  love,  my  king,  because  I  feel  that  you  have 
done  so  already." 

''From  the  depths  of  my  soul  I  have,  dear  wife,"  he 
earnestly  answered,  kissing  her. 

''Oh,  the  peace,  the  rest!  Oh,  the  peace,  the  rest!"  she 
said,  with  the  sigh  of  an  infinite  relief,  as  her  head 
dropped  on  his  Bosom. 

"And  now  we  will  talk  about  your  child.  Young 
mother,  you  must  have  suffered  cruelly  in  leaving  your 
child,"'  he  said,  svmoatheticallv. 

'''Oh,  I  did,  I  did,  August!"' 

''You  shall  suffer  no  more,  my  darling.  Listen.  Musa. 
I  have  a  plan  by  which  we  can  receive  and  acknowledge 
your  child  as  our  own,  without  exciting  any  gossip  

"As  'our'  own?  oh,  August!"'  she  said,  with  much  emo- 
tion. 

"Yes,  dearest ;  for  your  child  shall  be  my  child." 

"Oh,  God-like  soul !  what  can  I  do  to  merit  all  your 
wondrous  love?" 

"Trust  me,  Musa  ;  dear  wife,  trust  me.  But  now  to  my 
plan.  We  will  make  arrangements  to  go  to  Europe  im- 
mediately. You  and  I  are  strong  young  people,  Musa, 
and  will  not  mind  crossing  the  ocean  in  the  dead  of  win- 
ter." 

''Oh,  no."  she  said,  willing  and  anxious  to  agree  to 
everything  he  might  propose  and  eager  to  hear  his  plan. 

"We  will  take  our  child  with  us  when  we  go.  She  is 
about  a  year  old.  I  think  you  said?" 

''A  little  over  a  year  old." 

"Well,  we  will  take  her  to  Europe  with  us.  We  will 
remain  abroad  two  or  three  years.  And  when  we  bring 
her  back  with  us  who  will  question  that  she  is  not  our 
pwn?" 


44  Love  Strong  as  Death. 


"Oh,  August,  August,  would  you  indeed  do  all  that 
for  me?  for  me,  so  weak  and  so  unworthy?"  she  mur- 
mured, in  a  voice  full  of  emotion. 

"I  would  do  anything  to  insure  your  happiness,  dear 
wife,  for  I  love  and  trust  you — you  who  are  neither  weak 
nor  unworthy,"  he  answered,  caressing  her. 

"Oh,  this,  indeed,  is  love !  This  is  love  such  as  I  never 
even  dreamed  of!  This  is  love  without  self-love!  How 
shall  I  ever  deserve  it?"  she  said,  clasping  her  hands  to- 
gether. 

"By  loving  and  trusting  me,  dear  wife." 

"I  will  love  and  trust  you,  utterly  and  forever.  Ah, 
August,  I  realize  now  the  words  of  the  Lord :  'To  whom 
much  is  forgiven,  the  same  loveth  much/  Oh,  the  great 
relief!  August!" 

"Well,  my  own?" 

"Do  you  know  that  I  v/as  threatened  with  exposure? 
As  I  sat  down  in  the  carriage  that  was  to  take  us  to  the 
steamboat  I  picked  up  a  letter  directed  to  myself.  I  wish 
I  had  it  now  to  show  you,  but  I  have  not.  In  my  terror 
I  burned  it  up.  But  it  threatened  me  cruelly.  It  told  me 
that  Nemesis  should  meet  me  at  Richmond." 

"Well,  my  darling,  Nemesis,  invoked  by  an  enemy,  has 
appeared  and  vanished.  Instead  of  being  an  avenging 
spirit  she  has  been  converted  by  love  into  a  delivering 
angel.  For  all  things  are  possible  to  love,"  replied  Au- 
gust. 

"Yec,  I  know  now  that  love  is  the  strongest  power — 
strong  enough  to  put  the  hosts  of  Satan  to  flight.  Cer- 
tainly strong  enough  to  paralyze  the  malignant  power  of 
mine  enemy.  Mine  enemy  !  August,  who  is  mine  enemy? 
Who  sent  that  letter  to  you,  or  put  it  into  your  hands?" 

"Armida  Sutton,"  gravely  replied  Mr.  Carew. 

"Armida  Sutton !"  exclaimed  Musa,  in  amazement — 
"my  foster-sister !  the  poor  girl  that  I  took  from  the  bar- 
ren Montgomery  farm  and  made  my  most  cherished  com- 
panion !  When  and  where  did  she  do  this  ?  Tell  me  all 
about  it,  August." 

Mr.  Carew  commenced  and  told  his  wife  all  the  details 
of  the  visit  paid  him  by  her  false  and  treacherous  friend. 

"I  used  sometimes  to  think  she  envied  me ;  but  I  never 
dreamed  she  hated  me  to  such  a  great  extent.   She  must 


A  Dreadful  Shock. 


45 


have  been  a  very  artful  and  vigilant  spy  upon  me  to  have 
discovered  all  she  knows  And  that  letter  which  I 
missed  she  must  have  picked  up  in  my  room,"  said  Musa, 
who  never  imagined  that  Armida  Sutton,  with  all  her 
treachery,  would  have  descended  to  commit  a  felony  by 
breaking  open  drawers  and  caskets  to  possess  herself  of 
forbidden  secrets. 

"And  now,  dearest  wife,  let  us  forget  Miss  Sutton  and 
all  connected  with  her.  Now  that  you  are  under  your 
husband's  protection  her  malice  is  powerless  to  hurt  you," 
said  Mr.  Carew. 

"Yes,  we  will  forget  her.  And  that  means  we  will  for- 
give her.  Oh,  August,  my  heart  is  so  full  of  gratitude 
and  love  that  it  has  no  room  for  any  other  passion.  Oh, 
I  thank  Heaven  for  this  great  deliverance.  Oh,  the  rest 
and  peace.  Oh,  the  perfect  rest  and  the  infinite  peace," 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A    DREADFUL  SHOCK. 

The  next  morning  Musa  wrote  to  Mrs.  Seaforth,  in- 
forming that  good  woman  of  her  marriage  with  Mr. 
Francis  August  Carew,  and  advising  her  of  their  inten- 
tion to  go  in  a  few  days  to  In  wood  to  reclaim  the  child 
Musette. 

Musa  was  very  happy  now!  Never,  in  all  her  young 
life,  had  she  experienced,  or  even  imagined,  such  hap- 
piness as  she  now  possessed. 

Her  deliverance  from  the  heavy  burden  of  her  secret; 
the  great  proof  she  had  received  of  her  worshiped  hus- 
band's boundless  love  and  faith ;  the  near  prospect  of 
reunion  with  her  dear  child;  the  certain  protection  and 
security  of  her  own  fair  fame — ail  these  combined  to 
make  her  present,  in  contrast  to  her  past,  like  heaven 
after  purgatory. 

She  agreed  with  her  husband's  opinion,  that  they  had 
best  make  all  their  arrangements  for  the  voyage  to 
Europe  before  going  to  New  York  to  claim  the  child,  so 
that  there  should  be  no  necessity  for  their  return  to 
Richmond  previous  to  their  embarkation  for  Liverpool. 


46  A  Dreadful  Shock. 


With  this  understanding  the  husband  and  wife  vig- 
orously set  about  making  their  preparations  for  going 
abroad. 

Musa  wrote  to  Mr.  Lyttleton  Locke  and  to  Mrs. 
Shrewsbury,  advising  them  of  the  proposed  voyage,  and 
placing  her  house  on  Vermont  avenue  in  their  charge. 

Mr.  Carew  put  all  his  affairs  in  the  hands  of  a  com- 
petent agent,  who  was  to  attend  to  them  during  his 
absence. 

In  one  week  from  the  time  of  their  first  arrival  at 
home  all  their  arrangements  were  completed,  and  they 
were  to  leave  Richmond  for  New  York  the  next  morn- 
ing. 

That  last  evening  they  were  sitting  together  before 
the  comfortable  coal  fire  in  their  drawing-room,  when 
the  messenger  came  from  the  post  office,  bringing  in 
the  mailbag. 

Mr.  Carew  opened  it,  and  took  out  and  divided  the 
letters.  There  were  half  a  dozen  business  letters  for 
himself,  which  he  laid  on  the  table,  to  be  read  and  turned 
over  to  his  agent. 

And  there  were  three  for  Musa — one  from  Mr.  Locke, 
one  from  Mrs.  Shrewsbury,  and  one  from  Maggie  Sea- 
forth.    Musa  eagerly  seized  the  latter. 

"It  is  from  Mrs.  Seaforth,"  she  said,  with  a  smile  of 
delight,  "and  it  tells  me  of  my  child." 

He  smiled  in  sympathy  with  her,  as  he  began  to  open 
his  own  letters. 

But  as  she  read  her  cheeks  paled,  her  eyes  fixed  with 
an  intense  gaze  upon  the  lines  she  perused,  and  her 
hand  trembled  in  turning  the  page.  At  length,  with 
a  low  cry  of  anguish,  she  dropped  the  letter,  and  fell 
back  in  her  chair. 

August  sprang  to  her  side. 

"Musa,  my  darling,  what  is  it?"  he  exclaimed,  tak- 
ing her  hand  and  bending  anxiously  over  her. 

"Oh,  my  child!  my  child!  Oh,  my  child!  my  child!" 
she  wailed,  in  despair. 

"Sick?    Dead?    Tell  me,  my  darling?"  he  murmured. 

"Oh,  worse !  worse !  Read  !  read  !"  she  groaned,  point- 
ing to  the  fallen  letter,  and  breaking  into  a  sudden  storm 
of  sobs  and  tears. 


A  Dreadful  Shock.  47 


But  he  could  not  read  while  she  was  in  that  condition. 

He  stood  by  her,  gently  caressing  her,  until  the  vio- 
lence of  her  emotion  had  subsided,  and  left  her  weak 
as  an  infant.  Then  he  brought  her  a  glass  of  wine, 
and  persuaded  her  to  drink  it. 

"Now,  my  dearest,  can  you  tell  me  what  this  means?" 
he  inquired,  as  he  took  the  empty  glass  and  set  it 
down. 

"Oh,  read!  read!  I  cannot  tell  you,"  she  gasped,  for 
she  was  still  half-breathless,  and  sobbing  faintly  at  short 
intervals. 

August  picked  up  the  letter,  and,  smoothing  out  its 
crumpled  folds,  read  as  follows: 

The  Brown  Cottage,  Inwood,  January  15,  18 — . 

My  Dear  Mrs.  Carew  : — Oh,  my  dear  ma'am,  I  don't  know 
what  you'll  think  of  me,  or  think  of  us  all.  So  many  troubles,  I 
don't  know  which  to  tell  you  about  first.  But,  as  the  pious  Mr. 
Wilks  says,  "tribulations  abound  all  over  the  world." 

First,  I  must  tell  you,  ma'am,  that  I  am  married  to  Mr.  Wilks, 
which  will  surprise  you  very  much,  because  I  never  expected  to 
be  married  the  third  time,  any  more  than  you  did,  ma'am,  who 
used  to  say  you  never  would. 

The  very  day  after  we  were  married,  my  boy,  Sam,  ran  away, 
and  went  to  sea.  He  said  "he  couldn't  stand  so  many  step- 
fathers." And  I  only  gave  him  one  at  a  time,  ma'am.  And  I  am 
sure  his  first  stepfather,  my  poor,  dear  Jack  Seaforth,  who  was 
killed  in  the  fight  with  the  pirate,  was  as  good  to  him  as  ever  his 
own  father  could  have  been. 

And  talking  of  his  own  father,  ma'am,  reminds  me  how  sur- 
prised I  was  when  I  see  your  new  name.  It  is  Carew,  which  my 
first  husband's  name  was — Harold  Carew,  though  we  always 
called  him  Harry,  or  Hal.  And  Sam  was  his  son,  though  people 
got  to  calling  him  Sam  Seaforth,  instead  of  Sam  Carew,  because 
my  name,  by  my  second  marriage,  being  Seaforth,  it  came  more 
natural. 

No  wonder  my  Sam  ran  away  to  sea.  Running  away  to  sea 
runs  in  the  family,  I  think,  ma'am. 

Sam's  own  father,  Harold  Carew,  ran  away  to  sea.  ma'am, 
though  he  had  good  cause,  having  been  very  badly  treated  by 
his  father,  which  his  name  was  Colonel  Harold  Carew,  the  same 
name  as  your  husband's,  ma'am.  And  if  you  also  were  any  way 
related  to  your  husband's  family,  that  would  account  for  the 
great  likeness  there  is  between  my  boy  Sam  and  yourself.  And 
I  know  folks  down  South  often  marry  their  kinfolks  to  keep  all 
the  land  in  the  same  family,  because  my  poor,  dear  Hal  used  to 
tell  me  so. 

Oh,  dear,  ma'am,  your  letter  came  to  me  in  the  midde  of  my 
trouble  about  Sam.   But  that  was  nothing  to  what  followed. 


48 


A  Dreadful  Shock. 


When  I  got  your  letter  telling  me  you  were  married  to  Mr. 
Carew,  and  were  coming  to  take  the  child  home,  I  felt  very  sorry 
indeed  at  the  idea  of  parting  from  the  little  darling. 

And  so  did  Mr.  Wilks,  who  loves  her  as  if  she  was  his  own, 
and  calls  her  his  little  dove-eyed  darling,  and  wants  to  make  her 
a  lamb  of  the  fold. 

But  when  Mary  Morris  heard  about  it,  she  was  the  wildest 
thing  that  ever  I  saw.  She  had  a  regular  bad  fit  of  hystericks. 
And  even  when  that  was  over,  she  sobbed  and  cried,  and  cried 
and  sobbed,  day  in  and  day  out,  without  eating  a  mouthful  of 
victuals,  or  letting  the  child  out  of  her  arms  one  single  minute. 

She  said  she  wished  somebody  would  take  and  cut  off  her  head, 
and  put  her  out  of  her  misery,  before  ever  the  time  should  come 
for  her  to  part  from  the  baby  that  she  had  nursed  at  her  own 
breast  by  day,  and  cuddled  to  her  own  heart  at  night,  and  ever 
so  many  crazy  things  like  that  she  said,  so  that  I  ought  to  have 
been  warned  against  what  happened,  only  you  see,  ma'am,  I 
didn't  suspect. 

On  Monday  morning  Mary  said  to  me : 

"When  do  you  expect  this  fine  lady  to  come  and  tear  my  baby 
away  from  my  bosom?" 

"On  Thursday,"  I  said.  "And  I  shall  be  glad  when  all  this 
fuss  is  over." 

No  more  was  said  between  us  then. 

Mary  went  away  sobbing  and  crying  and  begging  somebody  to 
cut  her  head  off  and  put  her  out  of  her  misery,  in  her  usual  crazy 
way. 

And  still,  ma'am,  I  didn't  expect  anything  wrong  or  dangerous. 

But  on  Tuesday  morning,  ma'am,  Mary  didn't  make  her  ap- 
pearance. I  thought  she  had  cried  all  night  and  was  making  up 
for  it  by  sleeping  late  in  the  morning.  So  I  didn't  begin  to  get 
uneasy  till  the  morning  was  half  over.  And  then  I  thought  she 
had  cried  herself  sick,  and  that  the  baby  must  want  attention. 

So  I  went  to  the  room,  and  it  was  empty,  and  the  drawers  were 
empty,  and  the  wardrobes  were  empty.  And  Mary  was  gone,  and 
the  baby  was  gone,  and  everything  was  gone.  And  on  the  dress- 
ing-table there  was  a  note  written  to  you,  ma'am,  which  I  will 
send  you  in  this  letter. 

Oh,  I  screamed  and  screamed,  until  Mr.  Wilks  came  running 
up  to  ask  me  what  was  the  matter. 

I  told  him  all  about  what  had  happened,  as  well  as  I  could  for 
crying. 

He  said  that  the  police  must  be  notified.  And  he  put  on  his 
hat  and  ran  down  to  the  platform  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  and 
waited  and  jumped  on  the  first  train  for  New  York. 

And  he  informed  the  police.  And  spent  the  whole  day  search- 
ing for  Mary  and  the  child,  but  did  not  then  get  so  much  as  the 
least  clew  to  either  of  them. 

So  he  came  home  at  night,  but  brought  me  no  satisfaction.  He 
says,  dear  ma'am,  that  the  woman  seems  to  have  baffled  pursuit 
and  to  have  got  clear  off  with  the  child. 

She  had  a  plenty  of  money,  because  you  paid  her  such  good 


A  Dreadful  Shock. 


49 


wages  and  made  her  so  many  presents,  that  she  was  able  to  save 
a  great  deal  to  run  away  with. 

Mr.  Wilks  has  gone  to  New  York  again  to  resume  his  search, 
but  left  me  orders  to  be  sure  to  write  to  you  to-day  and  tell  you 
of  this  misfortune,  which  I  had  rather  died  than  met  with. 

I  send  you  the  letter  Mary  Morris  left.  It  was  not  sealed,  so 
we  took  the  liberty  of  reading  it  to  see  if  it  would  give  us  any 
clue  to  her  whereabouts.    But  it  didn't. 

Hoping  and  trusting  and  praying  that  we  may  soon  find  the 
woman  and  the  child,  I  remain,  dear  ma'am,  respectfully  yours, 

Margaret  Wilks. 

August  read  this  letter  very  hastily,  as  Musa  had 
read  it — skimming  over,  or  skipping  altogether,  the  long 
preamble,  with  which  poor  Maggie  had  tried  to  put  off 
as  long  as  possible  the  evil  moment  of  telling  the  dread- 
ful news.  But  when  he  got  to  the  story  of  the  child's 
abduction  by  the  nurse,  he  read  it  with  the  most  care- 
ful attention. 

Then  he  picked  up  and  examined  the  inclosed  note 
that  had  been  written  by  Mary  Morris. 

It  was  badly  spelled,  worse  written,  blotted  with  tears, 
and  as  follows: 

Brown  Cottidge,  Mundy  nite. 
Madam  : — I  can't  part  with  the  baby  that  I  have  nursed  at  my 
breast  ever  sense  she  was  borne.  It  would  kill  me  dead  to  do  it. 
You  promussed  when  you  took  her  you  would  take  me  too.  so  I 
should  newer  be  parted  from  her.  But  now  you  are  a  going  to 
brake  your  prommus  and  take  her  away  from  me.  You  wrote  to 
Mrs.  Seaforth,  as  I  had  better  look  out  for  another  place,  as  it 
would  not  be  kunveenyunt  for  you  to  take  me  to  Urope  with  you. 
And  how  you  would  pay  me  handsome  to  make  it  up  to  me  for 
the  disopintmint.  Jest  as  if  money  could  make  up  to  me  for  the 
baby  as  I  have  slept  with  in  my  buzzum  all  her  life.  If  you  had 
kep  your  word  to  me,  and  took  me  along  of  the  baby,  I  would  a 
served  you  faithful  for  the  baby's  sake,  and  kep  your  secret  too ; 
for  I  ain't  a  foole,  and  I  expect  as  there  is  a  secret.  But  no,  you 
wouldent  trust  me — you  wouldent  keep  your  word  with  me — you 
wanted  to  cut  loose  from  evvryboddy  as  knowed  enything  about 
the  baby. 

And  so  I  can't  part  with  the  baby,  I  tell  you.  It  is  all  I  have 
got  in  the  world  to  love,  except  my  poor  Dick,  and  Lord  noea 
where  he  is. 

But  I  rite  this  letter  out  of  pitty  for  you,  who  had  no  pitty  for 
me,  to  let  you  noe,  as  the  child  will  be  as  well  took  care  of  as 
ever  she  was.  I  love  her  better  than  my  own  hart's  blood,  and  I 
would  work  my  fingers  to  the  bones  for  her,  and  go  hungry  and 
cold  before  she  should  want  ennything  a*  she  has  ewer  been 
used  to, 


50  A  Dreadful  Shock. 


I  love  her  a  hunded  thousin  times  better  than  you  do,  'cause  I 
newer  could  a  gone  and  left  her  and  stade  away  from  her  like 
you  did. 

It  won't  be  enny  use,  your  trying  to  find  me  and  the  child, 
'cause  you  can't  do  it,  maddam.  But  you  can  cumfut  yourself  by 
thinkin'  as  the  child  will  be  as  well  took  care  of  as  ewer  she  was. 
For  so  she  will  be  as  true  as  I  tell  you.    Yours  rispectfully, 

Mary  Morris. 

August  read  this  letter,  folded  it  up  with  the  first  one, 
put  both  in  his  pocket,  and  paused  reflectively. 

"Well,  I  have  heard  of  children  being  stolen  for  spite, 
for  profit  and  for  revenge ;  but  I  never  before  heard  of  a 
child  being  stolen  for  love,"  he  mused. 

Then,  turning  to  his  sobbing  wife,  he  said: 

"My  darling,  I  think  you  may  take  comfort.  This 
woman  who  has  carried  off  your  child,  for  love  of  it,  will 
certainly  take  good  care  of  it,  as  long  as  she  keeps  it- 
But  she  cannot  keep  it  from  us  many  days,  no,  nor  many 
hours,  after  our  arrival  in  New  York.  She  is  evidently  a 
simple-minded  creature,  and,  unaided  as  she  is,  and  ham- 
pered with  the  stolen  child,  she  will  not  be  able  to  elude 
the  police  for  twenty-four  hours.  And  now,"  said  Mr. 
Carew,  speaking  from  some  natural  curiosity,  as  well  as 
from  his  wish  to  divert  his  wife's  thoughts  from  the  sub- 
ject of  her  child,  "what  is  this  that  the  woman  writes 
about  her  first  husband.  He  appears  to  have  been  the 
absconding  son  of  old  Colonel  Carew,  of  Pirate's  Peak?" 

"The  'absconding'  son!"  exclaimed  Musa,  indignantly 
— "the  discarded  son,  you  mean,  dear,  if  you  know  any- 
thing about  it.  Colonel  Carew  treated  his  boy  shame- 
fully, shamefully,  and  literally  drove  him  from  the  house 
— the  poor,  motherless  lad.  If  it  had  not  been  for  that,  I 
should  like  Colonel  Carew  very  much;  but  as  it  is,  when- 
ever I  think  of  his  treatment  of  his  son,  I  find  it  difficult 
to  be  civil  to  him,  even  in  my  own  house." 

"You  shock  me,  Musa.    Who  told  you  this?" 

"Half  a  dozen  or  more  of  the  neighbors  down  on  the 
bay  side." 

"What  was  the  cause  of  his  ill-treatment  of  the  boy?" 
"His  own  overbearing  disposition  and  ungovernable 
temper." 

"And  do  you  suppose  that  the  first  husband  of  this 


A  Dreadful  Shock, 


51 


many-times-married  young  woman  was  really  Harold 
Carew  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  August  dear.  I  hardly  read  that  part 
of  the  letter.  I  skipped  away  down  to  where  it  told  of 
my  child.    Read  that  part  over  again,  please." 

Mr.  Carew  drew  the  letter  from  his  pocket,  opened  it, 
turned  to  the  page  that  treated  of  the  writer's  first  hus- 
band, found  the  paragraph,  and  read: 

"  'How  surprised  I  was  when  I  see  your  new  name.  It  is  Ca- 
rew, which  my  first  husband's  name  was  Harold  Carew.  *  *  * 
No  wonder  my  Sam  run  away  to  sea.  Running  away  to  sea  runs 
in  that  family.  Sam's  own  father  ran  away  to  sea,  though  he 
had  good  cause,  having  been  very  badly  treated  by  his  father, 
which  his  name  was  Colonel  Harold  Carew,  the  same  name  as 
your  husband's,  ma'am.' 

'There,  dear,  that  is  all  she  says  about  the  name, 
though  I  think  it  is  conclusive  evidence  that  the  dis- 
carded son  of  Colonel  Carew  was  her  husband  and  the 
father  of  her  little  vagrant  Sam.  Whatever  became  of 
this  unlucky  Harold  Carew?    Do  you  know?" 

"Yes,  he  was  drowned  at  sea.  That  is  all  I  ever  knew 
of  my  landlady's  first  husband.  Singularly  enough  I 
never  heard  his  name  until  I  got  this  letter.  And  as  for 
Sam,  he  was  always  called  Sam  Seaforth.  So  you  see,  in 
the  fifteen  months  that  I  knew  this  woman  I  never 
chanced  to  hear  the  name  of  Harold  Carew." 

"And  what  a  thin  paper  wall  there  was  between  you  all 
this  time.  And  this  young  vagrant  who  has  run  away 
to  sea  is  really  the  grandson  and  heir  of  'Old  Harry?'  " 

"Of  course,  he  must  be  so." 

"Well,  my  darling,  when  we  go  to  New  York  to  look 
after  our  own  child,  whom  I  feel  sure  we  shall  speedily 
recover  unharmed,  we  must  also  try  to  find  this  runaway 
lad  and  bring  him  to  the  knowledge  of  his  grandfather, 
for  surely  'the  Old  Harry'  himself  will  not  refuse  to  re- 
ceive and  educate  his  only  son's  orphan  boy." 

"I  don't  know.  He  is  'the  Old  Harry/  you  know. 
He  richly  deserves  the  name  and  acts  out  the  character. 
He  may  refuse  to  see  the  lad." 

"In  that  case  we  will  take  him  ourselves,  dear.  He 
is  our  little  cousin  and  bears  our  name.  He  is  a  Carew. 
Wre  will  rear  and  educate  him." 


52  A  Dreadful  Shock. 


Musa  looked  at  him  with  more  of  admiration  and 
honor  than  she  could  venture  to  express. 

"How  is  it,"  she  thought,  "that  I,  who  feel  so  un- 
worthy, should  be  blessed  with  the  love  and  trust  of  such 
a  man?  His  every  thought  and  word  and  deed  are  so 
noble!" 

It  was  now  growing  late.  And  as  they  were  to  set 
out  very  early  the  next  morning  for  their  journey  north- 
ward, they  retired  to  get  what  rest  they  could. 

They  traveled  by  the  quickest  route  that  was  then 
practicable,  and  reached  Inwood  late  on  the  evening  of 
the  second  day. 

As  the  train  "slowed"  up  to  the  little  way-station,  and 
Musa  caught  sight  of  the  Brown  Cottage  on  the  hill,  half 
hidden  even  in  midwinter  by  the  evergreens,  her  heart 
almost  ceased  to  beat  in  the  intensity  of  her  anxiety. 

She  felt  that  in  a  very  few  moments  she  should  know 
whether  her  child  was  there,  ready  to  be  clasped  to  her 
bosom,  or  whether  it  was  still  missing. 

When  the  train  stopped,  Mr.  Carew  carefully  helped 
her  out  of  the  car,  gave  his  servant  a  check  to  receive 
their  baggage,  and  then  drew  her  arm  within  his  own,  to 
help  her  in  walking  up  the  hill  to  the  house. 

"Courage!  courage,  my  love!  You  are  nearly  sink- 
ing. Keep  your  heart!  for  if  we  do  not  find  her  here,  it 
is  but  a  question  of  little  time.  We  shall  find  her  to- 
morrow or  the  next  day.  That  simple  woman  can  never 
hide  long  from  our  vigilant  search,"  whispered  August, 
as  they  reached  the  top  of  the  hill  and  went  up  to  the  cot- 
tage. 

August  rang  the  bell,  while  Musa  sank,  half  fainting, 
on  the  seat  in  the  little  rustic  porch. 

The  door  was  opened  immediately  by  Maggie  Sea- 
forth,  or  rather  Mrs.  Wilks  herself. 

"My  child?"  gasped  Musa,  and  she  could  utter  no 
more. 

"Oh,  ma'am!"  wailed  Maggie  Wilks,  and  she  could  say 
no  more. 

"Come  in,  sir,"  said  the  parson,  appearing  on  the  scene 
and  addressing  them.  "Pray  come  in,  madam!  This  is 
a  most  unfortunate  affair.  And  I  regret  to  say  that,  as 
yet,  we  have  not  succeeded  in  gaining  any  cleyv^to  the 


r 


A  Dreadful  Shock.  53 


woman  or  the  child.  The  police,  however,  are  on  the 
watch,  and  we  h'ope  for  better  success  to-morrow." 

August  gently  seated  Musa  in  a  large  easy-chair, 
stooped  and  whispered  to  her  to  keep  up  her  spirits,  for 
that  he  would  find  her  child,  and  then  he  stood  up  and  in- 
quired: 

"When  is  there  a  train  to  New  York?" 
'There  will  be  a  train  in  fifteen  minutes,  sir,"  Mr. 
Wilks  answered. 

"Then  I  shall  go  down  by  it." 

"Oh,  where  are  you  going,  August?"  inquired  Musa, 
in  a  faint  voice;  for  in  her  miserable  state  of  mind,  she 
hated  to  lose  sight  of  him  for  an  instant. 

"I  am  going  down  to  New  York,  my  dear,  to  get  ad- 
vertisements, offering  a  large  reward  for  the  recovery  of 
the  child,  inserted  in  all  the  morning  papers.  I  shall  re- 
turn to-night  if  I  can  get  a  train.  When  is  the  latest 
train  up  to-night?"  he  inquired,  turning  to  Mr.  Wilks. 

"There  is  one  stops  here  at  eleven  twelve,  sir." 

"That  will  do ;  I  shall  return  by  that.  And  now  I  must 
be  quick,  as  I  have  only  ten  minutes  left.  Give  me  a 
personal  description  of  the  woman.  You,  Mr.  Wilks,  if 
you  please.  My  wife  is  not  capable  of  exertion  at  this 
moment,"  said  Mr.  Carew,  taking  out  his  tablets  and  pre- 
paring to  write,  and  take  notes  for  the  advertisement. 

"Mary  Morris — short  in  stature,  plump  in  form,  full 
face,  fair  complexion,  red  cheeks,  blue  eyes,  yellow  hair, 
very  soft  smile,  very  low  voice,"  said  the  parson. 

"That  will  do  for  the  woman.  Now  for  the  child," 
said  Mr.  Carew,  writing  rapidly. 

"Musette — thirteen  months  old,  large  for  her  age; 
round  and  plump  in  form,  round  plump  face,  small  regu- 
lar features,  rich  dark  complexion,  crimson  cheeks  and 
lips,  deep  dark-brown  eyes,  very  earnest  and  wistful  in 
expression ;  dark  eyebrows ;  dark,  silky,  short  curling 
hair." 

"That  wrill  do  for  the  child.  What  had  they  on  when 
they  left?"  inquired  Mr.  Carew,  as  his  pencil  flew  over 
the  tablet. 

"WTe  cannot  tell.  They  had  such  an  extensive  ward- 
robe, and  the  woman  managed  to  get  it  all  away  during 
the  night." 


54  A  Dreadful  Shock. 


f  Then  this  will  have  to  do.  Time  is  up.  Good-night, 
my  love.  You  had  better  go  to  bed.  Mrs.  Wilks,  pray 
see  to  my  wife.  She  needs  attention.  Good-night,  dear. 
I  shall  offer  a  thousand  dollars  reward  for  the  recovery  of 
the  child,"  said  Mr.  Carew,  as  he  hastily  pressed  the  hand 
of  his  wife,  and  hurried  away  to  catch  the  train,  whose 
warning  whistle  was  even  then  sounding. 

Mr.  Wilks  politely  ran  after  him  to  see  him  safely  off. 

"Oh,  Maggie!"  said  Musa,  as  soon  as  the  two  women 
were  left  alone,  "where  do  you  think  that  woman  can  be? 
Where  has  she  taken  my  poor,  dear,  little  child?" 

"Dear  ma'am,  I  would  'most  give  the  ears  off  my  head 
to  know  myself,  but  I  don't,"  replied  the  weeping  woman. 

"Does  Mr.  Wilks  think  we  can  find  her?" 

"Oh,  yes,  ma'am;  he  says  we  will  be  sure  to  find  her, 
sooner  or  later." 

"Oh,  Maggie,  do  you  think  that  woman  will  be  good 
to  my  poor  little  Musette?" 

"Good  to  her,  ma'am?  Why,  she  would  take  the 
heart  out  of  her  'bosom  and  give  it  to  the  child,  if  the 
child  needed  it.  The  way  she  do  love  that  child,  ma'am, 
is  beyond  belief;  it  is,  indeed." 

"I  am  rightly  punished  for  delegating  my  maternal 
duty  and  privilege  to  any  other  woman.  The  nurse  loves 
the  child  with  a  mother's  love  " 

"That  she  does,  ma'am,"  interrupted  Maggie. 

"And  no  doubt  the  child  loves  the  nurse  as  if  the  nurse 
were  her  mother,"  sighed  Musa. 

"She  does  that,  ma'am.  She  dotes  on  Mollie  Morris," 
assented  Maggie  Wilks,  with  cruel  candor. 

At  this  moment  Mr.  Wilks  returned  from  seeing  Mr. 
Carew  off  on  the  train  for  New  York. 

Perceiving  that  Musa  still  sat  with  her  bonnet  and 
wrappings  on,  he  turned  to  his  wife  and  said: 

"Margaret,  had  you  not  better  show  this  lady  to  her 
room,  where  she  can  lay  off  her  wraps,  and  order  tea?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  had  indeed!  Trouble  makes  me  forget 
everything.  But  Mr.  Wilks,  he  is  so  thoughtful.  Come, 
ma'am.  Your  room  is  all  ready  for  you.  The  same 
room.  And  the  supper  will  be  on  the  table  by  the  time 
you  are  ready  for  it,"  said  Maggie,  leading  the  way  up- 


A  Dreadful  Shock.  55 


stairs  to  the  pretty  chamber  over  the  parlor  that  had  al- 
ways been  kept  sacred  to  the  use  of  the  real  mistress  of 
the  house. 

But  as  soon  as  Musa  entered  this  room,  so  filled  with 
memories  and  associations  connected  with  her  lost  child, 
all  her  remaining  firmness  gave  way,  and  she  threw  her- 
self upon  the  bed  in  a  paroxysm  of  hysterical  grief. 

Her  poor  friend  sought  to  soothe  her  with  words  of 
hope  and  confidence,  but  without  effect. 

"Go  away,  Maggie,"  she  said,  through  her  heavy  sobs. 
"Go,  go!  leave  me  to  myself,  to  wrestle  with  this  trouble 
as  I  may.    I  shall  get  better  sooner  if  left  alone.  Go." 

Maggie  went,  sorrowfully  enough,  and  she  did  the  next 
best  thing  she  knew  how  to  do.  She  prepared  the  nice 
cream  toast  and  the  fine  orange  Pekoe  tea  that  she  knew 
Musa  could  enjoy  when  she  could  take  nothing  else. 

An  hour  passed  away  before  Musa  came  downstairs 
again.  She  was  now  more  composed  in  manner  th^n 
she  had  been  since  her  entrance  into  the  house. 

After  supper  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wilks  and  Musa  sat  up  in 
the  parlor  to  wait  for  Mr.  Carew,  who  returned  a  little 
while  after  midnight. 

He  had  made  the  round  of  the  daily  newspaper  offices, 
and  had  the  advertisement  for  the  absconding  woman 
and  abducted  child,  giving  a  full  personal  description  of 
each,  and  offering  a  large  reward  for  their  discovery,  in- 
serted in  them  all. 

And  his  hopes  of  a  successful  issue  were  so  sanguine 
as  to  cheer  the  spirits  of  the  sorrowing  mother. 

Early  the  next  morning  Mr.  Carew,  accompanied  by 
Mr.  Wilks,  went  again  to  the  city,  to  see  the  chief  of  po- 
lice, and  consult  with  that  experienced  officer  as  to  the 
next  best  steps  to  be  taken  for  the  recovery  of  the  lost 
child. 

Musa  remained  at  the  cottage  with  her  humble  friend 
Maggie. 

She  sat  in  her  own  room  for  the  greater  part  of  the 
day,  and  Maggie  sat  with  her. 

Inspired  by  the  confidence  of  her  husband  and  of  the 
minister,  who  were  both  convinced  that  they  should  soon 


$6  A  Dreadful  Shock. 


recover  the  child,  Musa  felt  in  better  spirits  than  on  the 
preceding  day. 

As  she  sat  with  Mrs,  Wilks,  suddenly  pity  for  that  pa- 
tient woman  moved  her  heart. 

"My  poor  Maggie,"  she  said,  "how  selfish  I  have  been 
to  think  only  of  my  own  child,  when  your  boy  is  also 
gone.    Have  you  heard  any  news  of  him  at  all?" 

"Yes,  dear  ma'am,  I  have ;  but  the  news  came  too  late 
for  me  to  bring  him  back.  He  shipped  as  cabin-boy 
aboard  the  Banshee,  merchant  ship,  bound  from  New 
York  to  Liverpool.  I  got  the  news  the  day  after  the 
Banshee  sailed.    So  it  was  too  late  to  do  any  good." 

"Well  now,  Maggie,  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  your 
son  and  his  father.  You  wrote  to  me  that  his  father's 
name  was  Harold  Carew." 

"Yes,  ma'am,  and  he  was  the  only  son  of  a  horrid, 
awful,  domineering  old  Turk,  down  South  somewhere, 
who  wasn't  content  with  abusing  his  own  poor  slaves, 
but  abused  his  own  only  son  to  that  extent  as  to  drive 
him  away  from  home." 

"Yes,  I  know  all  about  that.  But  do  you  know,  or  do 
you  remember  that  your  boy's  father  was  a  gentleman, 
and  that  your  boy  himself  is  the  heir  to  one  of  the  finest 
bayside  estates  in  Maryland?" 

"Yes,  I  know,  but  what  good  is  that,  dear  ma'am? 
That  horrid  old  wretch — Lord  forgive  me  for  using  pro- 
fane language — cast  off  his  son,  and  it  an't  likely  that  he 
will  even  so  much  as  look  at  his  grandson,"  said  Maggie, 
drying  her  eyes  with  her  white  muslin  apron. 

"I  differ  with  you.  Colonel  Carew,  I  have  heard,  re- 
gretted his  extreme  harshness  to  his  only  son  when  it  was 
too  late.  And  he  would  gladly  have  recalled  him  to  his 
home.  He  did  advertise  for  his  son,  but  his  advertise- 
ment was  never  answered.  And  I  think  that  when  he 
hears  that  his  son  left  a  son,  he  will  be  ready  to  welcome 
the  boy  with  gladness.  But  you  must  be  ready  with  the 
proofs  of  your  marriage  with  Harold  Carew,  and  of  your 
child's  birth." 

"Oh,  I  can  be  ready  enough  with  all  them.  But  it  will 
be  no  good,  ma'am;  not  a  bit/'  sighed  Maggie,  despair- 
ingly. 


A  Dreadful  Shock. 


57 


'Would  you  object  to  letting  me  see  these  proofs?'* 

"Oh,  no,  ma'am;  not  a  bit,"  said  Maggie,  as  she  arose 
and  passed  into  the  next  room,  from  which  she  presently 
returned,  bringing  a  handsome  japanned  box,  which  she 
placed  upon  her  lap,  after  she  had  resumed  her  seat. 

"My  poor  Hal  brought  this  for  me  from  China,  ma'am. 
It's  very  valuable,  I  believe,  and  many  is  the  time  I  could 
have  sold  it  for  a  good  sum.  But  I  never  would.  I 
kept  it  through  all  the  days  of  my  poverty,  and  kept  all 
my  treasure  in  it,"  she  said,  as  she  unlocked  the  box  and 
displayed  its  content:. 

They  consisted  principally  of  letters  and  papers.  But 
on  top  was  a  morocco  case,  which  Maggie  took  out  and 
opened.    It  contained  double  miniatures. 

"Here,  ma'am,  is  a  true  likeness  of  my  poor  Hal,  and 
one  of  his  own  mother.  Look  at  them,"  said  Maggie, 
putting  the  case  in  the  hands  of  the  lady." 

"This  is  very  good  proof  of  Sam's  parentage  at  least, 
for  there  is  a  very  strong  likeness  between  Sam  himself 
and  this  portrait  of  his  father.  Colonel  Carew  will  be 
sure  to  know  the  boy  by  that  likeness." 

"The  other  miniature  is  my  poor  Hal's  mother, 
ma'am." 

"Colonel  Carew's  first  wife?  Yes,  a  pretty  blonde; 
not  at  all  like  son  or  grandson,"  said  Musa,  studying  the 
picture. 

"And  here,  ma'am,  are  my  marriage  lines,  which  any- 
body may  see  the  same  recorded  in  the  register  of  St. 
Paul's  Church  in  the  city.  And  all  these  letters,  ma'am, 
are  the  letters  which  my  poor  Hal  wrote  to  me  before 
marriage  and  afterward,"  said  Maggie,  placing  a  large 
packet  of  papers  in  the  hands  of  her  friend. 

"Yes,  these  are  valuable.  They  must  all  be  submitted 
to  Colonel  Carew,"  answered  Musa,  as  she  received  them. 

"This,  dear  ma'am,  is  my  first  wedding-ring.  See 
what  a  thick,  heavy  gold  ring  it  is.  And  on  the  inside, 
you  can  see  for  yourself,  is  engraved,  'Harold  and  Mar- 
garet Carew.5  " 

"Yes,  this  is  also  very  valuable,  I  should  think/'  said 
Musa,  as  she  examined  the  ring. 

"This,  ma'am,  is  a  daguerreotype  of  me  and  Sam  and 


58  The  Marriage  Certificate. 


my  poor  Hal  taken  together.  And  a  time  we  had  getting 
that  baby  to  sit  still  long  enough  to  be  took,"  said  Mag- 
gie, handing  an  old-fashioned  case  and  picture,  contain- 
ing  very  good  likenesses  of  the  parents  and  child  well 
grouped. 

"This  is  excellent,  Maggie.  This  also  must  be  shown 
to  Colonel  Carew.  I  think  your  proofs  are  abundantly 
sufficient  to  establish  the  position  of  your  son  as  the 
grandson  of  Colonel  Harold  Carew,  and  the  heir  of 
Pirate's  Peak,"  said  Musa,  as  she  added  the  old-fashioned 
daguerreotype  to  the  other  "documents." 

"And  this— oh,  dear  me! — this  is  a  curiosity!"  said 
Maggie,  as  she  produced  another  piper  from  the  box, 
whose  contents  were  not  yet  half  exhausted. 

"What  is  it?  Another  proof?"  inquired  Musa,  with- 
out looking  up  from  the  picture  that  she  was  still  engaged 
in  studying. 

"Oh,  dear  me,  no,  ma'am.  It  has  got  nothing  to  do 
with  me  nor  Sam.  Look  at  it,  ma'am,"  said  Maggie, 
handing  the  paper  to  the  lady. 

Musa  took  it  carelessly,  opened  it,  and  uttered  a  cry  of 
joy. 

It  was  her  missing  marriage  certificate  I 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE   MARRIAGE  CERTIFICATE. 

"What  in  the  world  is  the  matter,  dear  ma'am?"  ex- 
claimed Maggie  Seaforth,  in  amazement,  as  she  gazed  at 
the  lady,  who,  after  that  first  sharp  cry,  sat  staring  at  the 
paper  in  her  hands. 

"Where  did  you  get  this  document,  Mrs.  Wilks?"  al- 
most breathlessly  inquired  Musa. 

"I  got  it  out  of  my  poor  dear  Jack's  vest  pocket." 

s<  'Jack's  vest  pocket !'  "  echoed  Musa,  in  perplexity. 

"Yes,  ma'am,  Jack's  vest  pocket.  When  my  poor,  dear 
Jack  was  killed  in  the  fight  with  the  pirates,  one  of  his 
messmates  brought  home  his  chest  to  me.  And  in  it  I 
found  a  second-hand  suit  of  gentleman's  clothes,  which 


The  Marriage  Certificate.  59 


my  poor,  dear  Jack  must  have  bought  in  London  for  his 
own  Sunday's  best.   Only  he  never  lived  to  wear  it."  j 

"Could  you  let  me  see  that  suit  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,  ma'am,  certainly." 

Maggie  arose  and  went  out,  and  when  she  returned  she 
laid  the  required  articles  before  the  lady. 

Musa  took  them  up  tenderly,  piece  by  piece,  and  tried 
to  recognize  them.  But  by  no  effort  of  the  imagination 
could  she  do  so. 

She  knew  from  circumstantial  evidence  that  this  was 
the  wedding  dress  of  the  Earl  of  Cressy,  and  that  the 
right-hand  pocket  of  the  vest  was  the  very  pocket  into 
which  she  had  seen  him  thrust  that  paper  handed  by  the 
minister,  and  which  had  been  subsequently  found  there, 
and  which  turned  out  to  be  the  missing  marriage  certifi- 
cate. 

"Maggie,"  she  said,  "I  will  give  you  a  hundred  dollars 
for  this  suit ;  they  belonged  to  one  who  was  once  very  dear 
to  me." 

"And  maybe  you  knew  the  lady  and  gentleman  whose 
marriage  lines  was  in  the  vest  pocket  of  the  suit  ?" 

"Yes,  I  knew  them  both  very  intimately.  And  there- 
fore, Maggie,  I  would  like  to  keep  the  'lines,'  as  you  call 
them." 

"Oh,  yes,  certainly,  ma'am;  keep  'em  if  you  want  'em. 
They  are  no  use  to  me.  Let  me  fold  the  clothes  up  for 
you,  ma'am." 

As  she  folded  them  Musa  started  and  changed  color, 
for  suddenly  she  remembered  her  forgotten  dream,  in 
which  she  had  been  painfully  hunting  through  New  York, 
this  very  garment,  and  had  seen  it  in  the  hands  of  this 
very  woman,  as  she  now  saw  it. 

"Can  such  things  be! 
And  overcome  us,  like  a  summer  cloud, 
Without  our  special  wonder?" 

she  said  to  herself,  as  she  fell  into  deep  reverie. 

But  her  joy  at  the  recovery  of  her  marriage  certificate 
soon  put  all  speculative  thoughts  to  flight. 

Left  alone,  Musa  read  over  her  marriage  certificate  and 
reflected  upon  the  strange  chain  of  circumstances  that  had 
eventually  restored  it  to  her  possession.- 


6o 


She  was  now  doubly  anxious  for  the  speedy  return  of 
Mr.  Carew  from  the  city,  for  she  was  not  only  longing  to 
receive  news  of  her  child,  but  to  put  in  his  hands  this 
proof  of  her  former  marriage. 

Truly,  he  had  taken  her  own  word  for  it;  he  had 
trusted  her  utterly ;  but  she  did  not  rejoice  the  less  in  this 
opportunity  of  justifying  his  trust. 

To  her  impatience,  the  day  passed  slowly. 

A't  length,  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  evening,  Mr.  Carew  and 
Mr.  Wilks  arrived.  Musa  flew  to  receive  them,  and  learn 
news  of  her  missing  child.  Air.  Carew  gave  her  that  news 
before  she  had  time  to  ask  it. 

"We  have  a  clue  to  the  woman  and  child  at  last,  my 
dearest.  A  woman  and  child  answering  exactly  to  the 
description  of  the  missing  ones  took  the  morning  train, 
yesterday,  from  Jersey  City  to  Washington.  I  started  off 
a  detective  by  this  night's  train  to  track  them.  And  if 
you  feel  equal  to  the  journey,  we  will  ourselves  go  on  in, 
the  morning." 

"Oh,  I  thank  Heaven !  Yes,  yes !  we  will  go  on  to- 
morrow morning !  I  would  go  to-night — this  hour — if  it 
were  possible!"  eagerly  exclaimed  Musa,  as  she  led  the 
way  from  the  front  passage  into  the  little  drawing-room. 

"I  should  have  taken  you  on  to-night,  my  dearest,  if  it 
had  been  possible  to  do  so,  after  getting  this  clue  to  the 
child.  But,  you  see,  I  had  barely  time  to  hurry  of?  a  de- 
tective, who  was  very  near  missing  the  train,  after  all. 
And  there  is  no  other  for  Washington  until  to-morrow." 
explained  Mr.  Carew,  as  he  sat  down. 

Musa  was  eager  to  show  her  marriage  certificate  to  Mr. 
Carew.  So,  pleading  fatigue  and  the  necessity  of  rising 
early  the  next  morning,  in  order  to  reach  the  Washington 
train  in  time,  Musa  bade  her  friends  good-night  and  re- 
tired to  her  room,  whither  she  was  soon  followed  by  Mr. 
Carew. 

"August,  you  trusted  me  without  proof.  And  now  I 
am  very  glad  to  give  you  the  proof  that  will  justify  your 
trust.  Read  that,  dear  August,"  she  said,  with  much  emo- 
tion, as  she  placed  the  marriage  certificate  in  his  hand. 

"Why,  what  is  this?"  he  inquired,  as  he  unfolded  the 
paper. 

"Read  it,  August,  and  you  will  see/'  she  answered. 


The  Marriage  Certificate.  6 1 


He  turned  to  the  top  of  the  page,  and  read  as  follows : 

CERTIFICATE  OF  MARRIAGE. 

This  is  to  certify- 
That  on  the  Third  Day  of  February, 
In  the  Year  of  Our  Lord 

One  Thousand  Eight  Hundred  and   

hi  Bladensburg,  in  Prince  George's  County, 
In  the  Diocese  of  Maryland, 
I  Joined  Together  in  Holy  Matrimony 
Donald  Hugh,  Earl  of  Cressy, 
And  Musadora  Percie, 
According  to  the  Rites  of  the  Protestant  Episcopal 
Church  in  the  United  States  of  America, 
And  in  Conformity  with  the  Laws 
Of  the  State  of  Maryland. 
In  Testimony  Whereof  I  Herewith  Put  My  Name, 
This  Third  Day  of  February,  Anno  Domini 

One  Thousand  Eight  Hundred  and   . 

Demetrius  Mortimer,  D.D. 

"Did  you  think  it  necessary  to  show  me  this,  my  love  ?" 
inquired  August  Carew,  half-reproachfully. 

"No,  no ;  but,  oh !  I  am  so  glad  to  have  it  to  show  you," 
answered  Musa,  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"You  found  this,  probably,  in  some  of  your  effects  left 
here,  in  some  box  or  casket  where  you  had  put  it  away 
safely  and  forgotten  it?"  said  Mr.  Carew. 

"No;  on  the  contrary,  Maggie  found  it  nearly  a  year 
ago,  under  the  pocket,  between  the  lining  and  the  cloth  of 
a  second-hand  vest,  bought  by  her  husband  in  London, 
and  no  doubt  first  sold  by  the  valet  of  the  late  Earl,  as  his 
perquisites." 

"A  very  strange  recovery  of  a  lost  document.  Did  Mrs. 
Wilks  know  to  whom  it  belonged  ?" 

"No.  If  she  had  even  suspected  she  would  have  put  it 
in  my  hands  long  ago.  But  as  it  was  she  kept  it  in  a  box 
among  her  own  papers,  and  only  found  it  by  accident  this 
morning  while  she  was  collecting  all  the  letters  and  papers 
relating  to  her  own  first  marriage  with  young  Harold 
Carew,  and  to  the  birth  and  baptism  of  their  son  Samuel, 
with  a  view  to  establish  his  claims  upon  his  grandfather, 
old  Colonel  Carew  of  Pirate's  Peak/' 

"Does  she  now  know?" 

"She  does  not.  She  only  knows  that  the  document  con- 
cerned some  one  in  whom  I  felt  interested," 


62 


The  Marriage  Certificate. 


"Then,  my  dear  Musa,  I  would  leave  her  in  that  igno- 
rance, at  least  for  the  present.  And  now  what  do  you 
wish  to  do  about  this  marriage  certificate?" 

"I  have  not  thought  of  doing  anything.  I  was  de- 
lighted to  have  it  for  your  satisfaction.   That  is  all." 

"For  my  satisfaction  !   I  was  satisfied  before  I  saw  it." 

"Well,  then,  to  justify  your  faith  in  me." 

"My  faith  in  you  needed  no  justification,  Musa.  So 
you  do  not  think  of  using  this  certificate?" 

"No,  unless  you  wish  me  to  do  so.  If  I  had  recovered 
this  paper  a  few  months  ago  I  should  have  used  it  to 
prove  my  right  to  be  recognized  as  the  widow  of  the  Earl 
of  Cressy.  But  now  that  I  am  your  wife,  August,  I  am 
perfectly  contented,"  earnestly  answered  Musa. 

"But  your  child,  Musa?" 

"If  my  child  had  been  a  boy — the  heir  of  the  Dukedom 
of  Montcalla — it  would  have  been  my  duty  to  establish 
my  former  marriage  for  the  security  of  that  child's  rights ; 
but  as  she  is  a  girl,  and  heiress  to  nothing  whatever  on 
her  father's  side,  and  could  gain  nothing  from  them  but 
an  empty  title  of  courtesy,  and  as  you  have  promised  to 
adopt  her  for  your  own,  I  do  not  feel  inclined  to  create  a 
sensation  by  proclaiming  my  former  marriage.  Oh,  Au- 
gust !"  she  suddenly  exclaimed,  breaking  from  the  calm- 
ness of  her  former  discourse,  "I  cannot  bear  the  thought 
of  my  former  marriage,  much  less  the  talk  of  it.  Oh, 
August !  I  never  loved  the  Earl  of  Cressy,  though  I 
thought  I  did  when  I  consented  to  be  his  wife.  But  then 
I  did  not  really  know  what  love  was.  I  mistook  the  mild 
affection  I  bore  him  for  love,  I  never  loved  until  I  met 
you,  August.  I  never  even  knew  what  love  was  till  I 
loved  you.    Oh,  August,  do  you  believe  me  ?" 

"From  my  soul  I  believe  you,  dearest  Musa." 

"Then,  in  mercy,  let  me  forget  that  I  ever  was  married 
before.  I  am  not  like  my  little  friend  Maggie,  wbo  talks 
of  her  'poor  Hal,'  and  'poor  Jack/  and  will  some  day 
speak  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Wilks  as  her  'poor  Jerry.'  I  have 
loved  but  once.  I  can  love  but  once.  And  I  hate  the 
self-deception  that  made  me  mistake  a  simple  friendship 
"for  divine  love.    Then  let  me  forget  the  past." 

"You  speak  my  own  sentiments,  dear  Musa.  By  all 
means,  let  us  forget  the  past.  You  might  show  your  mar- 


The  Marriage  Certificate.  63 


riage  certificate  to  your  old  friend  Mr.  Locke,  and  to  the 
few  others  that  were  in  your  confidence,  but  to  no  more/' 

"Let  us  settle  it  upon  that,  then,"  said  Musa. 

Very  early  the  next  morning  they  arose,  in  order  to 
catch  the  first  train  from  Jersey  City  to  Washington. 

With  delays  at  Amboy,  and  delays  at  Philadelphia,  and 
at  Havre  de  Grace,  and  at  Baltimore,  the  journey  between 
New  York  and  Washington,  that  is  effected  in  six  hours 
now,  took  twelve  then.  So  it  was  late  in  the  evening  when 
the  train  ran  into  Washington  station. 

The  detective  who  had  been  sent  on  the  night  before 
met  them  by  appointment  at  the  depot. 

"What  news  ?"  eagerly  inquired  Mr.  Carew,  as  they  all 
stood  upon  the  platform. 

"Nothing  satisfactory,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  sir.  The 
woman  and  child  answering  to  the  description  of  the  miss- 
ing ones  who  left  New  York  yesterday  morning  arrived 
here  last  evening,  and  were  seen  to  get  off  the  train.  But 
that  is  the  last  news  I  have  been  able  to  hear  of  them.  All 
trace  of  them  was  lost  in  the  crowd  that  got  out  at  the 
depot.  I  have  spent  the  day  in  a  vain  search  for  them, 
sir ;  but  still  I  feel  quite  confident  of  finding  them,  for 
I  have  taken  such  precautions  that  they  cannot  leave  the 
city,  or  attempt  to  leave  it,  without  being  arrested." 

Mr.  Ferret,  the  detective,  did  find  the  woman  and  child ; 
but  the  woman  wasn't  Mary  Morris,  nor  was  the  child 
Musette.  The  detective  had  been  following  a  false  trail. 
Musa  would  have  been  crushed  by  the  terrible  disappoint- 
ment had  it  not  been  for  August's  inspiring  hopefulness 
and  energy.  He  at  once  made  comprehensive  arrange- 
ments for  continuing  the  search,  which  Mr.  Ferret  under- 
took to  prosecute  to  a  definite  issue.  The  trip  to  Europe 
was  of  course  abandoned;  and  August  and  Musa  con- 
cluded to  go  to  Raven  Rocks,  and  there  await  the  result 
of  Mr.  Ferret's  efforts  to  find  the  missing  child. 

The  journey  to  Raven  Rocks,  which  had  to  be  made 
by  stage,  would  have  been  insupportable  to  Musa  (consid- 
ering the  inclement  season  of  the  year)  under  ordinary 
circumstances.  But  now  it  was  a  relief  to  her  surcharged 
heart.  Its  novelties  and  hardships  diverted  her  mind 
from  the  disappointments  she  had  experienced,  and.  gave 


64  The  Marriage  Certificate. 


a  zest  to  the  journey  which  she  had  by  no  means  antici- 
pated. 

When  they  reached  Eyrie,  at  the  head  of  Bald  Eagle 
Mountain,  their  trip  by  the  stage  ended,  and  the  rest  of 
the  journey  had  to  be  made  by  private  conveyance,  which 
August  requested  the  landlord  of  the  Raven  Rocks  Inn 
to  have  in  readiness  for  them — and  also  a  wagon  for  their 
baggage,  and  their  servants,  Cassy  and  Cornwallis — im- 
mediately after  breakfast. 

On  hearing  what  their  destination  was,  Mr.  Mosely, 
the  landlord,  indulged  in  a  copious  flow  of  gossip  with 
regard  to  the  old  manor  house.  He  said  it  was  haunted 
by  the  ghost  of  an  old  servant,  named  Agatha,  who>  was 
believed  to  have  been  murdered  there  several  years  be- 
fore. He  professed  to  have  himself  seen  sights  and 
heard  sounds  at  the  old  house  wfaich  froze  his  blood  and 
made  his  hair  stand  on  end.  And  when  they  reached  the 
residence  of  Mr.  Bullock,  the  land-steward,  at  the  foot 
of  the  mountain,  that  gentlemen  corroborated  the  state- 
ments of  the  landlord,  and  ended  by  saying: 

"I  do  not  believe  in  any  supernatural  cause  for  these 
disturbances  on  the  one  hand,  nor  can  I  conjecture  any 
natural  cause  for  them  on  the  other.  The  affair  up  to 
this  hour  remains  enveloped  in  mystery." 

"It  shall  be  my  business  to  clear  up  the  mystery,"  said 
Mr.  Carew,  decisively. 

"Heaven  grant  that  you  may  do-  so,  sir !" 

"And  now,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Bullock,  I  will  trouble 
yo*i  for  the  keys." 

"Certainly,  sir,"  said  the  land-steward,  as  he  arose  and 
went  to  a  desk  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  and  took  from 
it  a  heavy  bunch  of  keys,  which  he  brought  to  the  young 
master  of  the  house. 

"You  are  making  a  visit  of  inspection,  sir,  or  possibly 
you  are  intending  to  make  some  stay  among  us?"  re- 
spectfully inquired  the  land-stev/ard. 

"I  have  come  down  to  look  at  the  place,  and  may  stay 
some  weeks,  more  or  less." 

"If  you  would  like  to  look  over  my  accounts,  sir,  I  will 
take  them  down  to  the  house  at  any  time  you  may  choose 
to  name." 

"Very  well,  Mr.  Bullock ;  I  will  send  for  you  in  good 


The  Marriage  Certificate.  65 


Season — as  soon  as  I  have  leisure  to  go  over  the  books 
with  you.  Good-morning,"  said  Mr.  Carew,  as  he  arose, 
and  with  the  bunch  of  keys  in  his  hand  left  the  house 
and  re-entered  his  carriage. 

Their  way  now  lay  through  the  deep  forest  that  filled 
the  bottom  of  the  valley  and  swept  around  the  old  hall. 
At  length  they  emerged  from  the  forest  upon  the  road 
that  ran  along  the  stone  wall  inclosing  the  once  culti- 
vated but  now  neglected  grounds  around  the  manor 
house. 

Then  Musa  came  in  sight  of  her  future  home — a  mas- 
sive gray  stone  building,  with  a  pillared  portico  in  front, 
and  long  wings  to  the  right  and  left,  with  a  gloomy  back- 
ground of  tall  cedars  and  rocky  precipices. 

The  carriage  drew  up  at  a  rusty  iron  gate,  flanked  by 
a  porter's  lodge,  now  tenantless. 

Cornwallis  alighted  from  his  wagon,  as  nimbly  as  age 
and  infirmity  would  permit,  and  hastened  to  throw  open 
the  gates. 

The  carriage  rolled  through,  and  entered  upon  a  grass- 
grown  and  leaf-strewn  avenue  bordered  by  evergreen 
trees,  and  leading  by  a  semi-circular  curve  through  the 
lawn  and  up  to  the  house. 

"Where  shall  we  find  the  old  negro  who  is  in  charge 
of  the  premises,  I  wonder,"  said  Musa,  as  the  carriage 
drew  up  before  the  pillared  portico. 

"Bullock  told  me  that  his  cottage  is  in  the  rear  of  the 
manor  house,  near  the  stables,"  answered  Mr.  Carew,  as 
he  alighted. 

Musa  prepared  to  follow  him. 

"Welcome  home,  my  dearest  love,"  he  said,  as  he 
handed  her  from  the  carriage  and  led  her  up  the  stone 
steps  to  the  door. 

He  selected  a  key  from  the  heavy  bunch  in  his  hand, 
put  it  in  the  lock  and  turned  it.  The  harsh  grating 
sound  with  which  it  worked  told  a  dismal  tale  of  long 
disuse. 

He  threw  open  the  wide  door  and  entered  the  front 
hall.  But  the  fixed  air  that  met  him  beyond  the  thresh- 
old sent  him  hurrying  back  to  stop  Musa. 

"You  must  not  enter  yet,  my  love.  The  place  is 
deadly,   Sit  you  here  upon  the  porch  until  we  open  thg 


66  The  Marriage  Certificate. 


house  and  let  the  sunlight  and  air  in  upon  it,"  he  said,  as 
he  hurried  to  the  carriage,  and  brought  a  rug  and  some 
cushions  back. 

He  put  the  rug  on  the  stone  floor  of  the  portico,  and 
the  cushions  on  the  iron  seat,  and  made  her  sit  down. 

Then  he  beckoned  their  whole  staff  of  attendants — ■ 
Cassy,  Cornwallis  and  the  two  coachmen — to  follow  him 
into  the  house  to  assist  in  opening  and  airing  it. 

-Musa  was  left  alone  on  the  porch,  and  fell  to  thinking 
of  h'er  missing  child,  and  praying  for  its  recovery. 

While  she  was  so  engaged,  a  shadow  came  between 
her  and  the  sunlight.  Mindful  of  the  ghostly  character 
of  the  place,  she  started  with  a  thrill  of  awe  and 
looked  up. 

But  this  time  the  shadow  had  a  substance  behind  it. 
A  gigantic  negro  stood  before  her.  They  gazed  at  each 
other  for  a  full  minute  before  either  spoke.  The  negro 
was  the  first  to  break  the  silence. 

"I  beg  pardon,  missy,  but  dis  is  mighty  funny! 
Strangers  coming  into  a  strange  'house  dis  a  way.  Did 
Marse  Bullock  gib  leab  so  to  do?" 

Instead  of  answering  his  question,  Musa  asked  an- 
other : 

"Are  you  the  person  who  is  in  charge  of  this  place?" 

"I  am,  missy,  which  I  would  like  to  be  'formed  whed- 
der  Marse  Land-steward  Bullock  gib  leab  for  dis  intru- 
sion." 

"And  is  your  name  Pendragon?" 

"It  is,  missy,  which  I  would  like  to  know  wheddeir  or 
no  " 

"Then,  Pendragon,  you  had  better  go  into  the  house 
and  assist  the  other  servants  in  opening  and  airing  it. 
Your  young  master  has  come  home,"  said  Musa,  with  a 
benevolent  smile,  for  she  truly  thought  that  the  home- 
coming of  the  young  master  must  necessarily  be  a  very 
joyful  event  to  the  old  servant.  She  was  mistaken  in 
this  instance.  Pendragon  stared  at  her  in  dismay  for  a 
moment,  and  then  sank  heavily  down  upon  the  ground, 
and  sitting  there  flat,  said  slowly: 

"Well  —  de —  Lor'-a-messy —  on  — my —  poor  —  ole  — 
brack— soul." 


The  Marriage  Certificate.  67 


"Why,  what  is  the  matter,  my  good  man?"  inquired 
Musa,  in  wonder. 

"To  come  right  down  on  top  o'  me  like  a  tief  in  de 
night,  or  de  day  o'  wrath,  or  anyfing." 

"Pendragon,  are  you  not  glad  that  your  master  has 
come?"  inquired  Musa,  in  surprise, 

The  negro  shook  himself  together,  and  collected  his 
faculties,  and  forced  himself  to  answer : 

"Oh,  yes,  missy !  perfectly  oberjoyed  and  'elighted  to 
See  him.  ^Vy  de  s'prise,  missy,  and  nothin'  adequate 
and  conformable  to  his  comin'  home.  Which  I  soon 
'spected  to  bee  de  debbil  as  he,  missis.  I  begs  your  par- 
din  for  sayin'  anyfing  so  unpoiite.  But  I'm  offen  my, 
head,  missis,  and  dat's  de  saked  trufe,  and  all  along  ob  de 
'light  ob  habin'  him  come  home,  and  de  mortification  ob 
habin'  nuffin'  ready  for  him." 

"It  was  too  bad  of  us  to  come  unexpectedly,  Pen- 
dragon  ;  but  in  truth,  our  resolution  to  do  so  was  very 
suddenly  formed  and  acted  upon,"  said  Musa,  kindly ;  for 
mistaking  the  cause  of  the  negro's  disturbance,  she  really 
pitied  him 

"Missy,  der's  a  question  I  would  like  to  ax  yer,  which 
is  a  deliky  question  which  I  don't  like  to  ask,  dough  dere 
an't  no  rale  harm  nor  'fense  into  it  neider,"  said  Pen- 
dragon,  scratching  his  head. 

"I  think,  then,  you  may  certainly  ask  it,"  answered 
Musa. 

"Well,  den,  missis,  who  is  you?  Marse  Gus  Crew 
an't  got  no  sister,  dat  I  do  know.  Dough  you's  'nough 
like  his  ma  to  be  his  sister,  too.  Who  is  you,  missy,  if 
it  an't  no  'fense?" 

"None  at  all.  I  am  Mrs.  Carew,  your  master's  wife. 
And  before  that  I  was  Miss  Percie,"  said  Musa,  with  a 
tolerant  smile. 

"Well,  Lor'-a^messy —  on  —  my — poor — ole  —  brack — 
soul !"  again  said  Pendragon,  sitting  down  flat  upon  the 
ground  once  more. 

"What  is  the  matter  now,  my  good  man?"  inquired 
Musa,  at  once  amazed  and  perplexed  at  the  manner  of 
the  old  negro,  whom  she  began  to  suspect  to  be  a  lunatic. 

Instead  of  answering  her  question,  he  asked  another: 

"Not—not  Colonel  Reginal'  Percie's  darter?" 


68  The  Marriage  Certificate. 


"Yes,  Pendragon.  I  hope  you  'have  no  objection  to 
me  as  your  young  master's  wife?"  inquired  Musa,  now 
laughing  outright. 

Instead  of  answering,  Pendragon  took  hold  of  the 
wool  on  his  temples  with  both  his  hands,  and  began  as 
before : 

"Well — de  Lor'-a-messy  " 

But  his  prayer  was  interrupted  by  the  appearance  of 
Cassy,  who,  on  seeing  him,  exclaimed,  sharply: 

"Oh!  yer  ftere,  are  yer?  We  been  lookin'  arter  yer 
all  ober  de  place.  And  a  purty  mess  you  keep  eberyfing 
in.  Not  fit  for  pigs  to  come  to,  let  alone  ladies  and 
gemen.  But  I  know  how  it  is.  Yer  great  big  body,  as 
yer  so  proud  on,  an't  got  nutTm'  but  a  little  tiny  bit  of  a 
soul  to  tote  it  about,  and  it  can't  do  it.  That's  what's 
de  matter.  Now  go  right  in  to  yer  master.  He  a  lookin* 
for  yer.  And  Miss  Musa,  honey,"  she  added,  turning  re- 
spectfully to  her  mistress,  "yer  can  come  in  now.  I 
hoisted  all  de  windows,  and  made  a  iroarimg  fire  in  your 
own  room." 

Musa  arose  and  followed  the  old  nurse,  who  led  her 
up  the  broad  staircase  to  a  long  hall,  from  which  several 
doors  opened  into  lofty  chambers. 

"Here,  Miss  Musa,"  said  the  woman,  opening  a  door 
on  the  right-hand  front — "here  is  your  room,  and  a  fine 
.one  it  was  in  its  time,  and  not  so  bad  now." 

Musa  followed  the  nurse  into  a  spacious  chamber, 
lighted  by  four  high  windows — two  on  the  north  and 
two  on  the  east — which  commanded  a  fine  view  of  the 
magnificent  mountain  scenery. 

A  fine  hickory  wood  fire  burned  in  the  old-fashioned 
open  fireplace,  and  agreeably  warmed  the  room.  The 
floor,  of  dark  oak,  was  uncarpeted,  but  supplied  with 
three  Turkey  rugs,  one  before  the  ancient  dressing-table, 
one  before  the  fireplace,  and  one  beside  the  great  old  four- 
post  bedstead.  The  walls  were  covered  with  a  French 
paper  representing  the  loves  of  Cupid  and  Psyche.  The 
windows  and  the  bedstead  were  draped  with  faded  crim- 
son moreen.  And  the  chairs  and  sofas  were  covered 
with  the  same. 

Musa  drew  a  chair  to  the  fire  and  sut  down  to  warm 
her  feet. 


The  Marriage  Certificate.  69 


"Now,  honey,  I  gwine  to  send  up  yer  traveling  bag 
and  luggage.  And  if  you  contrive  to  'muse  yerself  any 
way,  so's  to  'scuse  me,  I  want  to  go  and  unpack  de  per- 
visions  we  fotch  from  Eyrie  and  see  about  getting  some 
luncheon  ready." 

"I  can  excuse  you  very  well,  Cassy.  But  are  there  no 
women  on  the  estate  that  car  be  called  into  the  house 
to  assist  you?  You  never  can  get  on  without  two  or 
three  assistants. " 

"Bress  you,  Miss  Musa,  there's  lots  of  'em.  There's 
Cornwallis'  two  nieces  and  three  granddaughters.  He's 
gone  down  to  de  quarters  now  to  see  'bout  bringing  'em 
up  here." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  it." 

"But  you  know,  Miss  Musa,  I'll  have  to  tend  to  'em 
and  'struct  'em  till  dey  gets  used  to  rings." 

"Yes,  of  course,  I  suppose  you  will,"  said  the  lady. 

The  old  nurse  started  to  leave  the  room,  but  suddenly 
turned  about  and  came  back  slowly  and  gravely  toward 
her  mistress. 

"Miss  Musa,  honey,"  she  said,  stopping  and  lowering 
her  voice,  "does  you  know  what  room  yer  in?'' 

"No,  nurse,  no  more  than  that  it  is  my  bedroom,"  anr- 
swered  the  lady,  lifting  her  eyebrows. 

"Honey,  it  is  de  room  as  you  was  born  in,  when  you 
came  into  dis  world,  and  where  your  mother  died  when 
she  went  to  glory,"  said  the  woman,  in  a  low  and  reveren- 
tial tone. 

"Oh,  Cassy!"  exclaimed  Musa,  in  a  voice  of  deep 
emotion,  as  she  looked  around  upon  the  scene. 

"Yes,  honey,  and  it  ain't  a  bit  altered  since  that  time, 
'cept  things  is  faded  a  little.  I  didn't  mention  it  to  you 
at  first,  honey,  'cause  I  hadn't  made  up  my  mind  whedder 
to  do  it  or  not.  But  jes  as  I  was  a  goin'  out  ob  de  door 
it  'peared  to  me  as  I  must,  tell  you." 

"I  am  glad  you  told  me,  Cassy.  The  thought  that  this 
was  my  poor  young  mother's  room  will  make  it  much 
dearer  to  me,"  murmured  Musa,  in  a  very  tender  tone-. 

"Den  I  ain't  sorry  I  told  you,  honey.  Now  I  gwine  try 
to  get  something  good  for  lunch,  and  fix  things  up  to 
look  little  like  Christian  people's  home." 


70 


The  Spectre. 


This  was  a  very  busy  day  for  all  the  new  household, 
not  excepting  August  and  Musa. 

They  had  tea  at  seven  o'clock.  And  after  tea  the  extra 
servants  who  had  been  called  in  to  help  were  dismissed 
to  their  quarters,  and  the  house  was  shut  up  for  the  night. 

August,  unaccustomed  to  manual  labor,  was,  as  he  ex- 
pressed it,  thoroughly  worn  out  by  his  hard  day's  work. 
And  as  soon  as  his  handsome  head  was  on  the  pillow  he 
was  sound  asleep. 

But  Musa  could  not  compose  herself  to  rest.  She 
closed  her  eyes,  and  tried  to  go  to  sleep. 

Whether  she  succeeded  or  not,  or  how  long  she  lay 
with  closed  eyes  before  the  awful  interruption  came,  she 
never  could  certainly  say. 

But  after  a  while  she  was  roused,  she  knew  not  by 
what  agency.  She  opened  her  eyes,  and — horror  of  hor- 
rors!— there,  bending  over  her,  glaring  at  her  with  fixed 
eyes,  was  the  most  hideous  and  demoniac  shape  ever 
sent  forth  from  the  sulphurous  fires  of  Tartarus, 


CHAPTER  VI. 

TH£  SPECTRA. 
If  I  stand  here,  I  saw  it !— Shakespeare. 

Musa's  wild  shriek  aroused  her  husband,  who  started 
up,  exclaiming: 

"What  is  the  matter?    Musa,  Musa!" 

But  she  was  shaking  as  with  an  ague  fit,  and  could  not 
immediately  answer. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  Musa,  what  is  all  this  ?"  demanded 
Mr.  Carev.%  in  alarm  for  her  health  or  sanity. 

"Oh,  August !  August !  as  I  live,  I  saw  it !"  she  gasped, 
shuddering. 

"Saw  what?    You  are  dreaming,  love." 

"Oh,  I  saw  the  thing,  whatever  it  was !" 

"It  was  the  nightmare,  Musa,"  he  said,  soothingly. 

"No,  no,  no !  I  know  what  the  nightmare  is — in- 
digestion, oppression,  sluggish  circulation  of  the  blood, 


The  Spectre. 


71 


attended  by  bad  dreams.    This  was  no  nightmare,"  she 
panted,  trembling. 
"What  was  it,  then?" 

"Oh,  the  blackest,  the  most  deformed,  the  most  hid- 
eous thing!  It  bent  over  me  and  looked  at  me  with  its 
horrible  eyes !"  she  gasped,  shuddering  and  covering  her 
face  with  her  hands. 

"Musa,  my  darling,  compose  yourself.  This  is  sheer 
folly.  You  have  had  a  bad  dream,  inspired  naturally 
enough  by  the  ghost  stories  that  you  have  heard  in  rela- 
tion to  this  old  house.  Use  your  excellent  sense  and 
compose  yourself  to  sleep  again,"  said  August,  calmly. 

"Oh,  no,  no,  no !  this  was  no  dream.  It  was  a  hideous 
thing  that  stood  by  me,  bent  over  me,  and  glared  at  me 
with  its  dreadful  eyes.  I  saw  it.  Oh,  August,  get  up! 
Light  all  the  candles,  and  rouse  the  servants.  I  cannot 
compose  myself  to  sleep  to-night  until  we  have  searched 
the  house.  It  may  be  that  something  has  got  in  and  is 
roaming  about,"  said  Musa,  still  trembling  in  voice  and 
limb,  as  she  stepped  from  her  bed  and  began  to  draw  on 
her  dressing-gown. 

"I  must  do  this  to  satisfy  you,  my  darling,  though, 
indeed,  I  do  not  think  it  necessary  upon  any  other  ac- 
count," said  Mr.  Carew,  with  a  smile,  as  he  also  arose 
and  wrapped  himself  in  his  dressing-gown. 

The  candles  that  had  been  deft  lighted  on  the  chimney- 
piece  had  burned  out.  The  great  hickory  log  fire  in  the 
fireplace  had  smoldered  down  to  a  mass  of  dull  red  and 
black  coals. 

August  groped  about  until  he  found  a  box  of  matches, 
and  then  he  lighted  a  candle  and  set  it  on  the  mantel- 
piece. 

"Light  another!  light  twenty!  oh,  this  darkness  is  hor- 
rible," exclaimed  Musa,  nervously. 

"I  will  light  all  there  are  here,  but  there  are  only  two 
more,"  answered  August,  with  a  smile  at  what  he  consid- 
ered Musa's  unreasonable  terrors. 

"Well,  three  must  do,  then.  We  can  leave  one  here, 
and  you  and  I  can  take  one  each  and  go  and  search  the 
house,"  said  Musa. 

"Let  us  begin  with  this  room,  then,"  added  August. 

And  they  carefully  searched  the  room,  looking  under 


73  The  Spectre. 


the  bed,  under  the  dressing-table,  under  the  sofa,  behind 
the  window  curtains,  in  the  wardrobe,  and  in  the  closets. 

But  nothing  unusual  or  suspicious  was  to  be  found. 

"Let  us  call  up  Cassy  and  Cornwallis,  now,  and  have 
them  help  us  to  search  the  other  parts  of  the  house/'  said 
Musa. 

"Very  well,"  replied  August,  with  the  same  sort  of  a 
smile  that  he  would  have  bestowed  upon  a  child  whose 
whims  he  was  humoring. 

They  were  about  to  leave  the  room  when  an  unearthly 
yell  rang  through  the  house. 

The  husband  and  wife  looked  at  each  other  in  amaze- 
ment for  an  instant,  and  then  Musa  sank,  pale  and  trem- 
bling, into  a  chair. 

"Come,  this  is  something  audible,  at  least,"  said  Mr. 
Carew. 

Musa  made  no  reply,  but  leaned  back  with  blanched 
cheeks,  half-fainting,  on  her  seat. 

"Why,  What  a  little  poltroon  you  are,  my  love,"  said 
August,  in  a  rallying  tone. 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  anything  whatever  in  this  material 
world.  But  I  confess  that  the  supernatural  fills  my  soul 
with  terror,"  murmured  Musa,  in  a  low,  faint  voice. 

"Stay  you  here,  then,  Musa,  while  I  go  and  unravel 
this  mystery.  I  have  no  doubt  I  shall  soon  prove  to  you 
that  all  these  supernatural  phenomena  have  a  very  nat- 
ural origin,"  said  Mr.  Carew,  as  he  snuffed  his  candle 
and  turned  to  go. 

"No,  no,  no ;  don't  leave  me  here !  I  will  go  with 
you !" 

"But  you  are  unfit  for  this  business,  Musa.  If  we 
were  to  startle  a  mouse,  or  a  cricket,  you  would  scream 
or  faint,  in  the  present  state  of  your  nerves." 

"But  I  cannot  stay  here  alone  !  I  will  not !"  exclaimed 
Musa,  who  was  seized  with  another  shaking  fit  at  the 
bare  thought  of  such  a  thing. 

"Then  I  will  send  Cassy  to  you,"  said  August. 

"No !  I  will  go  and  stay  in  Cassy's  room,  if  you  will  not 
let  me  go  with  you.  I  cannot  stay  here  without,"  per- 
sisted Musa. 

"Come  along,  then,  my  arbitrary  love,"  replied  August. 


The  Spectre.  73 


They  left  the  room,  and  entered  the  long  central  hall, 
at  the  back  extremity  of  which  was  Cassy's  little  room. 

"Do  you  go  in  and  wake  her  up,  Musa,  and  I  will  stay 
here  and  keep  watch  until  you  do  so,"  said  Mr.  Carew, 
when  they  reached  Cassy's  door. 

Musa  turned  the  knob  and  entered  the  room,  and  laid 
her  hand  gently  on  the  form  of  the  old  woman. 

To  her  infinite  amazement  her  gentle  touch  was  an- 
swered by  a  terrible  cry,  while  the  form  under  her  hand 
fell  to  trembling  violently. 

"Cassy,  Cassy,"  she  whispered. 

"Oh,  not  yet !  Don't  take  me  yet !  I  an't  'pared  to 
'part,  'deed  I  an't !"  screamed  the  old  woman,  cowering 
down  in  her  bed  and  drawing  the  bedclothes  closely 
around  her  head. 

"The  house  is  full  of  bedlamites,  is  seems  to  me,"  said 
Mr.  Carew,  as  he  entered  the  room,  where  Musa  was 
standing  over  the  cowering  and  shuddering  form  of  the 
old  woman,  and  saying : 

"Cassy,  rouse  yourself!  Come  to  vour  senses!  It 
is  I !" 

"Oh,  is  it  you,  Miss  Musa?"  exclaimed  the  nurse,  un- 
covering her  head,  and  staring  at  her  young  mistress. 

"Yes,  of  course.    Don't  you  see  that  it  is  !" 

"Yes,  honey,  I  see — I  see  it's  you  yourself  now.  But 
I  t'ought  you  was  de  debbil  come  back  again.  For  de, 
debbil's  been  here  arter  me  to-night,  honey.  He  is  in- 
deed, Miss  Musa !  He  is  indeed,  Marster  Augurs!" 
cried  the  woman,  shuddering  and  weeping. 

''What!  Have  you  seen  anything,  Cassy?"  inquired 
Musa. 

''What  frightened  you,  old  woman?"  questioned  Mr^ 
Carew. 

"De  debbil,  honey!  de  debbil,  marster!  Lord!  didn't 
you  hear  me  scream  jes'  'fore  you  come  in,  Miss  Musa? 
Why,  I  t'ought  people  t'other  side  o'  de  yeth  might  a 
heard  me  yell  out." 

"We  heard  you,  but  did  not  know  it  was  you,  though 
that  brought  us  to  your  room.  What  did  vou  see, 
Cassy?" 

"De  debbil.  I  keep  tellin'  ob  you,  honey — de  debbil, 
sure's  you  born."  _ 


74 


The  Spectre. 


"What  did  he  look  like,  old  woman?"  demanded  Mr. 
Carew. 

"Oh,  Marse  Augurs,  he  look  somefin'  like — like  a 
great  big  'normous  turkey-buzzard,  and  so•mefin,  like  a 
awful  large  hairy  black  bull,  and  someim'  like  a  sea-sar- 
pint,  and  somefin'  like  a  evil  spirit." 

Cassy  was  directed  to  get  up  and  dress,  and  join  in  a 
search  of  the  house.  Cornwallis  was  also  called,  and  the 
four  made  a  thorough  exploration  of  the  dwelling. 

Into  every  room  on  every  floor  they  went,  and  made 
a  diligent  search;  but  in  vain.  No  one,  no  sign  of  any 
one,  except  the  searching  party,  was  to  be  seen. 

After  two  hours  spent  in  this  investigation,  the  whole 
party  returned  to  the  supper-hall,  from  which  Musa's 
chamber  opened,  and  they  paused  as  if  to  hold  a  council 
of  war. 

"Well,  my  dear  Musa,  you  see  we  have  made  a  thor- 
ough search  of  the  whole  house,  and — found  nothing 
more  wicked  or  dangerous  than  ourselves,"  said  Mr. 
Carew,  with  a  smile. 

"I  did  not  suppose  that  you  would  find  anything  un^. 
usual,"  answered  Musa,  gravely. 

"And  now  I  think  we  may  retire  again.  We  have 
spent  more  than  two  hours  in  this  wild-goose  chase,  and 
fatigued  ourselves  enough,  I  hope,  to  insure  sound  sleep 
until  morning,  if  we  have  accomplished  nothing  else," 
said  Mr.  Carew. 

And  in  another  half-hour  the  perturbed  family  retired 
to  rest,  if  they  could — until  morning. 

I  think  that  no  one  slept  that  night. 

Mr.  Carew  had,  from  the  first  alarm,  treated  the  whole 
affair  with  ridicule.  But  he  was  not  quite  so  much  at 
ease  as  he  seemed  to  be.  If  there  was  nothing  super- 
natural in  the  events  of  the  night,  there  was,  at  least, 
something  very  mysterious.  And  August  Carew  did  not 
like  mystery.  He  determined  that  he  would,  on  the  next 
morning,  make  a  more  thorough  search  of  the  premises 
by  daylight  than  he  had  been  able  to  do  at  midnight,  with 
only  the  aid  of  a  couple  of  flaring  candles.  So  he 
planned,  instead  of  sleeping. 

Nor  could  Musa  sleep,  though  she  affected  to  do  so, 
to  avoid  disturbing  the  rest  of  others.   Musa  felt  sure 


The  Spectre. 


75 


that  the  hideous  thing  which  had  stood  by  her  bedside, 
bent  ovei  her  and  glared  at  her,  was  no  mere  creation  of 
a  dream  or  a  nightmare.  It  was  a  horrible  reality  and 
mystery,  the  very  memory  of  which  banished  sleep  from 
her  eyelids. 

In  the  morning  August  made  a  thorough  search  of  the 
premises,  but  could  rind  no  trace  of  the  apparition.  But 
he  made  a  surprising  discovery,  namely,  that  Pendragon 
had  fled  to  Richmond,  to  his  mistress,  Kate  Carew.  Such 
an  unaccountable  proceeding  filled  both  him  and  Musa 
with  wonder  and  vague  disquiet.  And  although  he 
couldn't  find  the  spectre,  various  members  of  the  house- 
hold came  in  contact  with  it  and  fled  shrieking  from  its 
presence.  In  the  course  of  three  days,  everybody  in  the 
house,  except  August,  had  encountered  the  spectre,  and 
yet  he  perversely  refused  to  believe  in  its  existence. 
This  skepticism  on  his  part  annoyed  Musa,  and  she  ar- 
dently hoped  that  August  would  have  a  "visitation"  that 
would  cure  his  unbelief. 

One  day  Mr.  Carew  had  gone  to  Eyrie  for  letters,  and 
when  Musa  thought  it  was  time  to  expect  him  back  she 
put  on  her  sealskin  coat  and  hood  and  took  her  muff  and 
started  out  to  meet  him.  She  walked  down  the  evergreen 
avenue  until  she  came  to  the  great  iron  gates  and  the 
dilapidated  lodge,  where  she  sat  down  on  the  stone  steps 
to  wait  for  her  husband. 

She  knew  she  would  not  have  long  to  wait,  yet  she  grew 
impatient,  and  soon  arose  and  passed  through  the  iron 
gates,  and  walked  a  short  distance  up  the  road,  in  the  di- 
rection in  which  he  was  expected  to  come,  and  then  turned 
to  look  at  the  house. 

The  upper  windows  were  all  hoisted  now  and  standing 
open  to  air  the  long  closed,  damp  and  musty  rooms. 

While  she  stood  gazing  at  them  now  under  the  full 
light  of  day  there  suddenly  appeared  at  one  of  them — 

Could  she  believe  her  own  eyes? 

The  hideous,  shapeless  thing,  whose  apparition  had  ap- 
palled her  on  the  first  night  of  her  residence  at  Raven 
Rocks. 

She  recognized  it  with  a  start  and  a  slight  scream. 
And  then  she  forced  herself  to  gaze  upon  it  calmly  and 
fixedly.   It  was  easy  for  the  most  timorous  to  do 'so  in 


76  The  Spectre. 


broad  daylight,  and  at  this  safe  distance.    But  it  was  not 

so  easy  to  make  anything  out  of  the  apparition. 

A  dark,  ugly,  formless  creature,  with  an  ugly,  indistinct 
face.  That  was  all  that  she  could  make  out,  as  she  gazed 
steadily  upon  it  for  the  space  of  two  minutes. 

"Oh,  how  I  wish  August  would  come  now,  so  that  he 
could  see  this  thing  as  I  see  it,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she 
kept  her  eyes  fixed,  spellbound,  on  the  apparition. 

In  another  moment  the  sound  of  approaching  horse's 
hoofs  struck  on  her  ear. 

She  turned  and  saw  her  husband  galloping  down  the 
road  toward  the  gate. 

"Oh,  I  am  so  glad !  Now  he  will  see  for  himself,"  she 
said,  as  she  threw  her  eyes  again  up  to  the  haunted  win- 
dow. 

The  apparition  was  gone! 

"Was  there  ever  anything  so  provoking?  Now  August 
will  not  see  it.  And  he  never  will  believe  in  it  until  he 
does  see  it.  And  as  for  me,  I  shall  not  say  another  word 
to  him  on  what  he  considers  a  ridiculous  subject,"  said 
Musa  to  herself.  "Any  letters  ?"  she  demanded,  aloud,  as 
August  galloped  up  and  sprang  from  his  horse. 

"A  half-a-dozen,"  he  answered,  gayly,  holding  up  a 
sheaf.  "And  there  is  good  news.  Come  to  the  porter's 
lodge  and  sit  down  on  the  steps  to  read  your  letter.  That 
will  tell  you  everything." 

When  they  reached  the  lodge  August  tied  his  horse  to 
the  gatepost,  and  then  sat  down  beside  his  wife  on  the 
moss-covered  doorsteps  of  the  forsaken  lodge. 

"Now,  then,  my  dear  Musa,  here  are  three  letters  about 
the  child  " 

"But  where  is  she?  where  is  she?  When  can  I  have 
her?"  eagerly  demanded  the  young  mother. 

"I  told  you  there  was  good  news,  Musa,  and  that  these 
letters  would  give  you  the  details.  But  I  fear,  after  all, 
you  will  be  a  little  disappointed ;  for,  though  the  child  is 
safe  and  well  by  the  last  accounts,  she  is  probably  by  this 
time  half  way  across  the  Atlantic  Ocean,"  said  Mr.  Ca- 
rew,  hesitatingly,  for  he  hated  to  distress  his  wife. 

"Oh,  Heaven!  half  way  across  the  Atlantic  Ocean !" 
groaned  the  young  mother,  turning  pale, 


The  Spectre. 


"But,  my  dearest  Muisa,  she  is  safe  and  well,  and  in  the 
hands  of  her  devoted  nurse,  who  has  taken  care  of  her  all 
her  little  life,  and  will  take  care  of  her  still,  since  she  loved 
her  enough  to  steal  her  away  and  burden  herself  with  ner 
support.  And  besides,  Ferret  and  Mrs.  Wilks  have  gone 
after  her  on  the  steamer  which  sailed  Wednesday,  and 
which  will  most  probably  get  into  Liverpool  before  the 
sailing  vessel  on  which  the  nurse  and  child  are  embarked 
can  possibly  do  so.  But  here,  read  the  letters  for  yourself. 
The  first  is  from  Ferret,  the  second  from  Mrs.  Wilks,  and 
the  third  from  Wilks  himself,"  said  Mr.  Carew,  as  he 
placed  the  letters,  open,  in  the  hands  of  his  wife. 

Musa  took  them  trembling,  selected  Detective  Ferret's 
letter,  and  read  that  first.  It  was  directed  to  F.  A.  Carew, 
Esq.,  and  was  as  follows : 

New  York,  Feb.  29,  18 — . 

F.  A.  Carew,  Esq. — Dear  Sir:  I  have  but  a  few  moments  to 
inform  you  that  I  have  at  last  obtained  a  sure  clew  to  the  ab- 
sconding woman  and  the  stolen  child.    These  are  the  facts : 

That  a  woman  exactly  corresponding  to  the  description  of  the 
fugitive,  and  bearing  the  name  of  Mary  Morris,  sailed  in  the  emi- 
grant ship  Fairy,  which  sailed  from  Boston  last  Saturday,  bound 
for  Liverpool.  This  woman  had  with  her  a  female  child  answer- 
ing exactly  to  the  description  of  the  stolen  child  and  bearing 
the  name  of  Musette. 

Further  investigation  led  to  the  conclusion  that  this  woman, 
with  the  child  in  her  possession,  had  left  Inwood  and  taken  the 
midnight  train  for  Albany,  whence  she  and  the  child  were  traced 
to  Boston  and  to  the  ship  Fairy. 

I  have  only  this  day  finished  working  up  the  case  to  a  certainty 
that  justifies  me  in  the  course  I  am  now  about  to  pursue.  Obey- 
ing your  instructions  to  spare  no  expense  for  the  pursuit  of  the 
abductor  and  the  recovery  of  the  child,  and  availing  myself  of 
the  ample  funds  placed  in  my  hands,  I  have  this  day  secured  a 
passage  on  the  steamship  Darien,  that  leaves  this  port  to-morrow 
morning.  I  shall  take  Mrs.  Wilks  with  me,  to  assist  in  identify- 
ing the  woman  and  child.  I  confidently  expect  to  reach  Liverpool 
before  the  Fairy  can  arrive  there — in  time  to  overhaul  the  parties 
before  they  have  a  chance  to  disembark.  So  you  see,  sir,  we  have 
them,  as  it  were,  in  a  trap. 

I  shall  take  charge  of  the  child  and  wait  tor  the  arrival  of  the 
next  steamer,  by  which,  of  course,  you  will  either  write  or  come. 

And  now,  sir,  as  I  have  a  good  many  things  to  do,  I  will  close, 
with  my  best  respects  to  madam  and  yourself.  Your  obedient 
servant,  Edmund  Ferret. 


Musa  finished  this  letter,  laid  it  down  with  a  sigh,  and 


The  Spectre* 


looked  with  an  appealing  glance  in  the  face  of  her  hus- 
band. 

"Yes,  love,"  he  said,  tenderly  answering  her  silent  peti- 
tion. "Of  course  we  will  go  over  in  person.  This  is  Fri- 
day, so  that  we  cannot  catch  the  steamer  that  leaves  New 
[York  to-morrow  morning,  but  we  can  easily  secure  the 
One  that  is  to  sail  on  next  Wednesday,  We  will  go  by 
tot." 

For  all  answer  she  took  his  hand  and  pressed  it  to  her 
fert. 

"Now  read  your  other  letters,  love.  They  bear  upon 
Hie  same  subject,"  he  added. 

She  took  up  Mrs.  Wilks'  letter  and  opened  it. 
•It  was  shorter  than  the  first,  and  read  as  follows : 

In  wood,  Feb.  29,  18 — . 

My  Dear  Ma'am  : — Mr.  Ferret  says  he  will  write  and  tell  you 
Ull  the  particulars  about  his  rinding  a  sure  and  certain  trace  of 
$&ary  Morris  and  little  Musette,  so  I  need  not  tell  you  about  that. 

I  write  to  say  how  good  Mr.  Wilks  has  been  in  consenting  to 
sftly  going  over  to  England  with  the  detective  officer  to  identify 
She  child ;  and  also,  to  tell  you  that  when  I  get  hold  of  the  child 
I  shall  never  let  it  get  out  of  my  arms,  or  out  of  my  sight,  until 
I  set  it  on  your  lap.  And  now,  dear  ma'am,  I  must  close,  because 
i  liave  got  to  pack  up  to-night. 

With  regards  to  Mr.  Carew,  I  remain,  truly  yours, 

Margaret  Wilks. 

;,|She  is  a  good  soul,  poor  woman,"  said  Musa,  as  she 
folded  up  this  letter  and  laid  it  with  the  detective's.  "And, 
by  the  way,  I  hope  when  she  gets  to  Liverpool  she  will 
find  her  son.  The  ship  he  ran  away  to  was  also  bound  for 
Ifliat  port." 

"Yes,  I  hope  she  will.  And  if  she  should  we  must 
bring  the  boy  back  with  us  and  try  to  restore  him  to  his 
grandfather,"  answered  Mr.  Carew. 

Musa  meanwhile  opened  Mr.  Wilks'  letter. 

It  was  addressed  to  F.  Augustus  Carew,  Esq.,  and  was 
Shorter  than  either  of  the  others.  It  was  as  follows : 

Asterick  Hotel,  New  York,  March  i,  18—. 
My  Dear  Sir:— I  have  just  seen  Mrs.  Wilks  and  Detective 
Ferret  off  on  the  Darien  that  sailed  for  Liverpool  this  morning. 
They  left  very  suddenly,  in  order  to  reach  Liverpool  in  time  to 
intercept  the  Fairy,  on  board  of  which,  we  have  ascertained  be- 
yond all  doubt,  the  missing  woman  and  child  to  be.   I  inclose 


The  Spectre. 


79 


with  this  two  letters,  one  from  each  of  the  pursuers,  which  they 
left  with  me  to  mail,  and  which  will  explain  matters  more  fully. 
They  expect  you  to  write,  or  to  follow  by  the  next  steamer.  If 
I  can  be  of  any  service,  pray  command  me.  With  much  respect 
to  Mrs.  Carew,  I  beg  to  subscribe  myself, 

Truly  your  friend,  Jeremiah  Wilks. 

"And  he  is  another  good  soul.  I  like  him  better  than 
I  did,"  commented  Musa;  "and  now  we  will  return  to  the 
house." 

"Yes,  dear,  for  my  ride  through  the  frosty  air  has  given 
me  an  appetite  for  luncheon,"  answered  August,  walking 
by  her  side  and  leading  his  horse. 

"When  shall  we  leave  here  for  New  York,  August?" 
inquired  Musa. 

"On  Monday,  if  you  like." 

"Yes,  let  it  be  on  Monday,  that  we  may  secure  the 
Wednesday's  steamer  for  Liverpool,"  said  Musa,  eagerly. 

And  as  they  walked  on  they  settled  the  preliminaries  of 
the  voyage,  so  far  as  they  could  do  it  by  words  alone. 

After  luncheon  that  day  Musa  summoned  her  old  nurse 
and  told  her  that  they  were  all  to  leave  Raven  Rocks  for 
New  York  on  the  following  Monday. 

Cassy  was  perfectly  delighted  to  hear  it,  and  immedi- 
ately set  about  packing  up  for  the  journey. 

After  an  early  supper  the  family,  being  very  much 
fatigued,  retired  to  rest.  And  the  night  passed  without 
any  sort  of  disturbance,  natural  or  supernatural. 

In  the  morning  Mr.  Carew  rode  to  Eyrie  to  get  the 
mail,  but  he  found  nothing  for  Raven  Rocks. 

On  his  return,  Bullock,  the  land-steward,  met  him  by 
appointment,  and  spent  several  hours  with  him  in  looking 
over  the  accounts  of  the  estate  and  in  receiving  his  in- 
structions for  its  management  during  his  absence. 

The  land-steward  departed  soon  after  luncheon.  The 
remainder  of  the  day  passed  busily,  yet  quietly.  As  on 
the  preceding  night,  the  household  retired  early. 

Musa  lay  awake,  thinking  of  her  child,  praying  for  her 
safety,  nearly  all  that  night. 

At  length  toward  morning  from  sheer  weariness  she 
fell  asleep,  and  slept  deeply  until  she  was  strangely  awak- 
ened by  the  sound  of  heavy  breathing  and  moaning  close 
to  her  side. 


8o 


"Gatha," 


She  opened  her  eyes.  The  room  was  darker  than  ever. 
The  shadows  were  blacker  and  heavier.  The  fire  on  the 
hearth  had  smoldered  down  to  a  scarcely  perceptible 
deep,  red  glow.  The  night-lamp  had  burned  out.  The 
pale  light  of  the  winter  dawn  was  gleaming  faintly 
through  the  crevices  of  the  closed  window  shutters.  But 
this  did  not  much  enlighten  the  gloomy  scene. 

And  the  sound  of  that  heavy  breathing,  low  moaning 
and  muffled  movement  continued. 

In  vain  she  looked  around  for  its  cause.  She  knew  that 
some  being  was  present  in  the  room  at  that  hour,  but  she 
could  not  discover  it,  amid  the  heavy  black  shadows  of  the 
place,  made  heavier  and  blacker  by  the  contrast  of  the 
deep,  dull,  red  glow  of  the  smoldering  hickory  fire  on 
the  hearth. 

She  thought  of  calling  and  waking  Mr.  Carew,  but  the 
dislike  of  his  ridicule,  in  the  event  of  nothing  being  found 
to  account  for  her  alarm,  prevented  her  from  doing  so. 

While  she  lay,  with  her  heart  almost  ceasing  its  pulsa- 
tion's, she  suddenly,  at  the  same  time,  felt  a  stir  by  her 
side,  a  moan,  a  low  cry,  and  

Then  the  voice  of  her  husband,  saying : 

"Musa,  don't  be  alarmed !  I  have  caught  the  'ghost/ 
I  am  holding  it  by  both  hands.  It  is  flesh  and  blood.  Get 
up,  my  dear,  and  light  a  candle,  and  let  us  'interview'  it." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"GATHA." 

Trembling  with  excitement  and  intense  curiosity,  Musa 
aros^  and  hurried  to  the  window  and  threw  open  the  shut- 
ters, letting  in  the  light  of  day  upon  the  dusky  room  and 
upon  a  strange  group  at  the  bedside — August  Carew  sit- 
ting up  in  bed,  leaning  off  and  grasping  with  both  hands 
the  talons  of  a  creature  that  seemed  scarcely  human,  so 
dark,  so  ugly,  so  decrepit  it  was.  It  was  moaning  as  in 
pain  and  fear,  and  struggling  feebly  to  get  away  from  its 
captor. 

Musa  approached  the  group  and  looked  closely  at  the 
singular  figure  of  the  captive. 


"Gatha.' 


81 


"It  is  an  old  negro  woman,"  exclaimed  husband  and 
wife  in  a  breath. 

"Who  are  you?"  questioned  Mr.  Carew,  in  a  gentle 
tone,  for  he  began  to  feel  some  compassion  for  the  mis- 
erable wreck  of  humanity  before  him. 

But  the  poor  creature  only  moaned  in  an  inarticulate 
anguish,  and  struggled  piteously  to  free  her  hands. 

"Musa,  dearest,  lock  the  door,  and  then  I  will  release 
her.  I  hate  to  use  any  force  upon  a  thing  so  old  and  weak 
as  this,"  said  August. 

Musa  secured  the  door  and  returned  to  the  bedside. 

August  let  go  the  hands  of  the  old  creature,  who  now, 
no  longer  held  up  by  his  strength,  sank,  as  if  dying,  upon 
the  floor. 

August  arose  and  slipped  on  his  wadded  silk  dressing- 
gown. 

Musa  had  already  put  on  hers,  and  she  was  now  kneel- 
ing down  on  the  floor,  closely  inspecting  the  drooping 
form  of  the  miserable  being  there. 

From  appearances  it  was  the  form  of  an  extremely  aged 
negro  woman,  black  as  soot  and  worn  to  mere  skin  and 
bone.  The  face  was  shrunken  out  of  human  likeness ;  the 
arms  looked  like  long  black  sticks,  the  hands  like  black 
claws.  It  was  half  covered,  rather  than  clothed,  in  rags 
that  had  lost  every  vestige  of  their  original  color  and  now 
dangled  in  dusty  and  dirty  tatters  about  the  skeleton  limbs. 
The  ugliness  of  the  shrunken  black  face  was  caused  more 
by  a  look  of  mingled  anguish  and  idiocy  than  by  wicked- 
ness or  malignity. 

Musa,  from  the  bottom  of  her  heart,  pitied  this  most 
wretched  creature.  She  kneeled  down  beside  her,  took 
her  hand,  and  tenderly  inquired: 

"Who  are  you,  my  poor  woman?" 

"Eh?"  feebly  questioned  the  woman,  rolling  her  deeply- 
sunken  red  eyes  restlessly  around. 

"Darling,"  said  August  to  his  wife,  "go  and  wake 
Cassy  to  come  and  stay  with  you  while  I  go  downstairs 
and  summon  Cornwallis.  We  must  find  out,  if  possible, 
who  this  poor  creature  is  and  where  she  came  from,  and 
we  must  have  her  removed  from  this  room." 

"She  is  the  same  figure  that  I  saw  at  my  bedside  on  the 
first  night  of  our  arrival,  and  that  I  afterward  saw  in  the 


82 


"Gatha." 


open  window  of  the  north  attic,"  replied  Musa,  as  she 
arose  from  her  kneeling  position  beside  the  fallen  creat- 
ure, left  the  room,  and  passed  down  the  hall  and  knocked 
at  old  Cassy's  door. 

"Who  dar?"  burst  out  in  notes  of  terror  from  the 
awakened  sleeper. 

"It  is  I,  Cassy.  Dress  yourself  quickly  and  come  to 
my  room,"  answered  heir  mistress.  And  with  a  warning 
to  the  nurse  to  make  no  outcry  she  returned  to  her  own 
room,  when  August  said: 

"I  will  go  now  and  call  up  the  men.  Some  among  them 
will  know  who  this  poor  creature  is."  And  he  went  out. 

His  departure  was  soon  followed  by  the  entrance  of 
Cassy,  who  hurried  in  breathlessly. 

Mr.  Carew  soon  entered  the  room,  followed  by  Corn- 
wallis and  by  the  two  girls,  Seely  and  Meely. 

"Go  up  to  the  poor  creature,  old  man,  and  see  if,  upon 
a  closer  view,  you  can  recognize  her,"  said  Mr.  Carew. 

Cornwallis  slowly  approached  the  huddled  form,  the 
nagged  skeleton,  and  said: 

"Hole  up  yer  head." 

The  poor  old  creature  raised  her  woebegone  face  to  the 
"interviewer." 

Cornwallis  stared  as  if  he  were  'struck  dumb  for  a  min- 
ute, and  then  said  slowly : 

"Lord  a  messy  on  all  our  souls  alibe !— -why — why — it's 
Gatha!" 

Mr.  <and  Mrs.  Carew  dlrew  nearer  the  speaker.  The 
three  negro  women  stretched  their  necks  to  get  a  closer 
view,  but  did  not  dare  to  move  a  step. 

"It's  Gatha,  marster!  Gatha  as  was  lost,  and  we  all 
t'ought  was  dead!  Gatha!"  repeated  Cornwallis,  still 
staring  at  the  upturned  wizened  black  face. 

"Agatha !  Good  heavens !  Where  has  the  poor  creat- 
ure been  all  this  time,  and  what  has  reduced  her  to  this 
pitiable  condition?"  exclaimed  Mr.  Carew,  with  the  deep- 
est compassion,  as  he  bent  over  the  poor  old  black  wreck. 

"Cornwallis,  she  must  once  have  known  you  well.  Try 
to  make  her  recognize  you  now,  and  give  some  account  of 
herself,"  said  Mrs.  Carew,  dropping  tears  of  pity. 

"Gatha !  woman !  don't  you  know  me — Cornwallis,  you 


"Gatha."  83 

know?'5  said  the  old  negro.,  taking  hold  of  her  hand,  and 
giving  it  a  rousing  shake,  as  he  stared  into  her  face. 

She  shook  her  head  slowly  and  sadly. 

"Give  her  a  glass  of  wine,"  suggested  Mr.  Carew. 

Musa  herself  ran  downstairs  and  got  the  wine  and  hur- 
ried back  with  it.  Mr.  Carew  poured  out  a  small  glass 
full  and  put  it  to  Gatha's  lips.  But  she  snatched  it  from 
him  with  her  claw-like  hands  and  drank  it  eagerly. 

Then  Musa  beckoned  the  two  girls,  Seely  and  Meely, 
who  were  her  granddaughters  by  their  mother's,  as  they 
were  the  granddaughters  of  Cornwallis  by  their  father's 
side. 

"Come,  children,  speak  to  the  old  woman.  Don't  be 
afraid  of  her.  She  is  your  granny  Gatha.  See  if  she  re- 
members you,"  said  Mr.  Carew. 

The  two  girls  slowly  approached,  as  if  they  were  still 
uncertain  whether  the  poor  old  creature  were  not  both  un- 
canny and  dangerous. 

"Granny  Gatha,  don't  you  know  me?  I  am  Seely," 
said  the  more  courageous  of  the  two. 

Agatha,  stimulated  by  the  wine,  looked  at  her  grand- 
daughter with  slowly  reviving  intelligence  for  a  full  min- 
ute, during  which  no  one  else  spoke  or  moved. 

Then  she  put  out  one  black  claw  and  hooked  it  into  the 
girl's  dress  and  drew  her  closer,  while  she  muttered : 

''Yes,  honey ;  but  dis  is  how  it  is.  Ef  I  tells,  dey  will 
kill  me.  An'  ef  I  don't  tell,  I'll  lose  my  mortal  soul. 
Dere  !  dere's  how  it  is." 

"What  is  she  mattering  about,  Seely?"  inquired  Mrs. 
Carew,  who  had  caught  only  a  few  words  of  the  sen- 
tence. 

"Oh,  ma'am,  she's  talking  nonsense.  She's  jes'  as  crazy 
as  a  June  bug.  'Tan't  no  use  to  pay  no  'tention  to  what 
she  says.  I  don't  b'lieb  we'll  get  any  satisfaction  out'n 
her,"  replied  the  girl. 

"Ask  her  where  she  has  been  all  this  time.  Perhaps  she 
can  answer  that  question,"  suggested  Mrs.  Carew. 

"Granny  Gatha,  where  you  been  stayin'  all  dis  time — dis 
two  years  and  more?"  inquired  Seely. 

"Hush !  Up  dere.  In  de  cuddy  room,"  muttered  the 
old  woman. 

"Ask  her  why  she  staid  up  there,"  said  Mrs.  Carew, 


84  "Gatha." 

"What  makes  you  stay  up  dere  in  de  cuddy  roorrls 
Granny  Gatha?"  inquired  Seely. 

"Hush !  Dragon.  He  put  me  dere,"  muttered  the  old 
creature. 

"There  is  something  more  in  this  than  meets  the  eye 
and  ear,"  said  Mr.  Carew. 

And  now  a  remarkable  change  passed  over  the  face  oi 
the  old  crone.  As  her  stimulated  brain  took  cognizance 
of  August  Carew 's  personal  appearance,  her  eyes  gleamed 
with  a  lurid  light  of  recognition,  of  surprise,  and  almost 
of  joy. 

"Oh,  Marse  Percie !  Marse  Reginald  Percie !  Is  dat 
you,  youse'f  ?  And  dey  tell  me  bow  you  was  dead  and 
gone.  And  here  you  is.  And  you'll  purtect  me.  Oh, 
Marse  Reginald  Percie,  I  so  sorry  as  ebber  I  did  it." 

The  old  woman  spoke  with  no  appearance  of  mental  de- 
rangement, but  with  every  symptom  of  reviving  memory 
and  intelligence. 

"What  are  you  so  sorry  for  having  done,  Agatha?" 
gently  asked  August. 

"Oh,  for  havin'  any  hand  in  de  changin'  ob  de  chillun 
dat  dreadful  night,"  whispered  the  woman,  in  a  fright- 
ened tone. 

"Musa,  my  dear,  send  all  the  servants  from  the  room," 
said  Mr.  Carew,  in  a  low  voice. 

"Cornwallis,  go  make  up  the  fire  in  the  parlor.  Cassy, 
take  the  two  girls  with  you,  and  go  and  get  breakfast.  It 
is  quite  time,"  said  Musa. 

When  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carew  found  themselves  alone 
with  their  strange  companion,  they  shut  and  locked  the 
door,  and  then  drew  near  her  again. 

"What  children  did  you  help  to  change,  Agatha?"  in- 
quired Mr.  Carew,  while  Mrs.  Carew  looked  on  and  lis- 
tened with  the  deepest  interest. 

"Oh,  Lor' !  Oh,  oh,  oh !  Ef  I  tells,  dey  will  kill  me. 
Ef  I  don't  tell,  I'll  lose  my  mortal  soul.  Ef  I  do  tell,  I'll 
lose  my  life.  I  won't  tell — not  till  I  know  Pm  dyin' ;  den 
I'll  tell,  'cause  it  won't  make  no  difference.  And  so  I'll 
save  my  mortal  soul  in  time.  But  I  an't  a  dying  now !" 
exclaimed  the  crone,  exultingly. 

"But  you  had:  best  tell  now,  if  you  have  anything  to 
tell.  You  have  certainly  nothing  to  fear.   This  lady  an<$ 


"Gatha." 


85 


myself  are  mistress  and  master  of  this  house,  and  we  will 
protect  you/'  said  August. 

"Yes,  surely,  so  you  is  de  marster  ob  de  bouse,  'cause 
you  rented  it,  I  'members.  But  dat  lady,  she's  de  mist'ess, 
is  she?  She  must  be  de  new  mist'ess  den.  I  seed  her 
befo';  but  I  didn't  see  her  good.    Le'  me  see  her  good." 

Here  Musa  came  forward.  But  the  moment  old 
Agatha's  revived  intelligence  took  cognizance  of  her  she 
screamed  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  fell 
to  trembling  violently. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you,  poor  soul?  Surely  you 
are  not  afraid  of  me?  I  would  not  hurt  you  for  the 
world,"  said  Musa,  in  a  soothing  manner. 

"Oh,  Miss  Kate !  Miss  Kate !  Miss  Kate !  Spare  my 
life ;  and  I  won't  never  tell  nothin'  till  I'm  on  my  dying 
bed !"  cried  the  crone,  in  an  agony  of  terror. 

"Whom  do  you  take  me  for  ?  Mrs.  Kate  Carew  ?  I  am 
like  her  in  person,  but  I  am  not  she.  Why  do  you  fear 
Mrs.  Kate  Carew?"  inquired  Musa. 

"You  ain't  Miss  Kate!"  exclaimed  Agatha. 

"No,  indeed,  I  am  not,"  answered  Mrs.  Carew,  smiling 
at  what  she  considered  the  fantasies  of  a  lunatic.  "I  am 
not  Miss  Kate.  I  was  Miss  Percie.  And  I  am  Mrs.  Ca- 
rew, the  wife  of  your  young  master — Mr.  Francis  Au- 
gustus Carew,"  said  Musa. 

"Stop,  honey ;  please  'peat  dat  ober  to  me  again,"  said 
the  poor  creature,  holding  her  head  with  both  her  hands. 

Musa,  good-humoredly,  repeated  her  statement. 

"Oh !  and  he  finks  as  he  is  de  son  ob  ole  Mr.  Peter 
Carew  ?" 

"Yes,  Gatha." 

"And  you  finks  as  you  is  de  darter  ob  Marse  Reginald 

Percie?" 

"Certainly  I  do." 

"And  vou's  bofe  married ?" 

"Yes." 

"Married  to  one  anoder?" 
"Yes,  yes." 

"And  you's  bofe  husband  and  wife?" 
"Why,  of  course  we  are." 

"And  de  housen  and  de  lands  and  de  niggers  <fe 
money  all  unite  into  one  wid  you  two  ?" 


36 


"Gatha. 


"Assuredly,"  said  Musa,  a  little  impatiently. 

"Well,  den,  I  hopes  as  it's  all  right.  And  ef  it  an't  aH 
right,  I  hopes  as  it  is  righter  dan  she  meant  w'en  she  did 
it,"  muttered  the  old  creature  to  herself. 

August  and  Musa  looked  at  each  other  in  questioning 
dismay;  for  they  knew  the  story  of  their  nativity,  and 
they  connected  it  with  the  strange  confession,  or  half- 
confession,  made  by  Agatha. 

"Can  you  not  speak  a  little  more  plainly,  my  poor 
woman  ?  Tell  us  what  children  were  changed,"  demanded 
August  Carew,  but  in  a  tone  and  manner  which  were  as 
firm  as  they  were  kind. 

"Oh,  Marse  Reginald,  I  so  sorry  I  had  any  hand  into 
it !"  moaned  Agatha,  again  relapsing  into  imbecility  and 
confusion. 

The  transitory  flash  of  intelligence  had  quite  passed 
away  and  left  her  as  idiotic  as  ever. 

"Dear  August,  I  think  we  had  better  send  for  two  of 
the  women  from  the  quarters,  and  have  this  poor  creature 
carried  to  a  room  and  taken  care  of,  and,  oh !  above  all 
things,  washed  and  dressed  and  fed.  She  knows,  or  be- 
lieves she  knows,  something  or  other,  but  we  cannot  get  it 
out  of  her  in  her  present  condition,"  said  Musa. 

"I  believe  you  are  right,  my  dear.  We  only  confuse  her 
by  our  questions/'  assented  August,  as  he  went  and 
touched  the  bell. 

The  summons  brought  Seely  to  the  room.  The  neces- 
sary orders  were  given,  and  old  Gatha  was  soon  provided 
for.  * 

While  August  and  Musa  were  at  breakfast,  the  morn- 
ing sky  became  overclouded  and  a  'snowstorm  came  up. 

"I  am  sorry  to  see  this.  This  will  prevent  our  going  to 
church  to-day,"  said  Mr.  Carew. 

"And  I  shall  lose  the  only  opportunity  I  shall  have  for 
years  of  attending  church  in  this  parish.  Well,  I  can  look 
after  my  poor  waif  to-day,  at  all  events.  That  will  be  an 
occupation  worthy  of  the  day,"  said  Musa,  as  they  arose 
from  the  table,  and  she  rang  to  have  the  service  cleared 
away. 

But  there  were  other  occupations  prepared  for  them. 


"datha." 


87 


Old  Cornwallis,  who  answered  the  bell  and  received  the 
order,  bowed  gravely  and  then  announced : 

"Pen dragon  have  come  back,  sir." 

"Pendragon  come  back?  Well,  he's  a  free  and  easy 
mortal.  He  comes  and  goes  at  his  own  sweet  will.  When 
did  he  return?"  inquired  Mr.  Carew,  in  some  surprise  and 
curiosity. 

"About  half  a  hour  ago,  sir." 

"Where  did  he  come  from  ?" 

"From  Richmond,  sir,  which  he  say  he  'rove  at  Eyrie 
this  morning,  by  de  night  coach,  and  come  straight  on 
here." 

"Well,  and  what  does  he  say  for  himself  ?" 

"He  'sires  most  respectful  to  'port  hisself  to  you,  sir, 
soon  as  convenient  to  yoursef." 

"Very  well.  Clear  away  the  service,  and  tell  him  to 
come  here,"  said  Mr.  Carew. 

Cornwallis  quickly  removed  the  breakfast  service,  and 
left  the  room. 

"I  suppose  he  wishes  to  give  some  account  of  himself," 
said  Mr.  Carew. 

"I  have  an  idea  that  he  can  throw  some  light  upon  the 
mystery  of  the  disappearance  and  long  concealment  of  old 
Agatha,"  said  Mrs.  Carew. 

"Perhaps  so,"  admitted  her  husband. 

"And  here  he  comes,"  added  Musa,  as  she  heard  a  hesi- 
tating step  and  a  rap  at  the  door. 

"Come  in,"  said  August. 

And  Pendragon  entered. 

He  bowed  with  the  deepest  reverence,  and  crossed  the 
room. 

He  held  in  his  hands  a  letter  and  what  seemed  to  be  a 
packet  of  manuscript. 

"He  came  up  to  Mr.  Carew,  and  with  still  another  and 
deeper  obeisance,  he  presented  the  letter  first. 

"Ah !  so  you  have  returned,  Pendragon.  I  hope  you 
will  be  able  to  account  for  your  sudden  and  unauthorized 
departure?"  said  Mr.  Carew. 

"Wid  submission  to  you  and  de  madam,  sir,  I  hopes  as 
de  letter,  my  honored  missus'  letter,  will  splain  all  most 
satisfactory,"  replied  the  old  man,  respectfully. 


88 


The  History  of  a  Mystery. 


Mr.  Carew  took  the  letter  and  examined  the  super- 
scription. 

It  was  directed: 

"To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  F.  A.  Carew." 
He  opened  it  and  read  as  follows : 

"The  Shoals,  March  2d,  18 — . 
''My  Dear  August  and  Musa  :  You  must  not  blame  Pendragon 
for  anything  whatever  that  he  has  done.  He  is  my  own  private 
and  confidential  servant,  and  has  acted  from  first  to  last  under 
my  own  absolute  orders.  I  send  with  this  a  narrative,  which  I 
wish  you  both  to  read  in  private.    Your  affectionate  mother, 

"Katherine  Shrewsbury  Carew." 

August  passed  this  note  to  his  wife  to  read,  and  then 
said  to  Pendragon : 

"You  may  go.   We  will  call  you  when  we  want  you." 

When  they  were  left  alone  he  opened  the  packet,  and 
read  aloud  as  follows : 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  HISTORY  OF  A  MYSTERY. 

"I  am  about  to  make  a  confession,  which  nothing  but 
moral  cowardice  prevented  me  from  making  months  ago, 
and  which  only  the  sternest  necessity  could  compel  me  to 
make  now. 

"To  do  this,  I  must  enter  upon  a  little  private  family 
history,  of  which  you  know  nothing,  and  in  the  course  of 
which  I  must  speak  of  a  household  tragedy  that  will 
deeply  grieve  and  humiliate  you  both. 

"First,  then,  of  myself." 

Here  followed  a  sketch  of  Kate  Carew's  early  life  and 
marriage,  with  which  the  reader  is  familiar.  She  then 
continued : 

"You  all  have  heard  of  the  catastrophe  of  the  Golden 
Shaft,  which  foundered  off  Point  Lookout.  You  know 
that  my  father  and  my  husband,  who  were  on  the  boat  en 
route  for  Washington  City,  were  among  the  lost. 

"Thus  by  one  terrible  stroke  of  misfortune  I  was  or- 
phaned and  widowed  in  one  hour.  And  this  blow  fell  on 
me  only  a  few  weeks  before  my  expected  confinement. 


The  History  of  a  Mystery.  89 


"For  many  days  I  was  prostrated  by  grief. 

"And  yet,  then,  I  did  not  know  the  full  extent  of  my 
calamity.   I  had  afterward  to  learn  it. 

"As  soon  as  I  rallied  sufficiently  to  look  into  my  affairs, 
I  discovered  an  alarming  fact. 

"It  was  that  the  vast  landed  estates  of  my  late  husband 
were  all  strictly  entailed  upon  heirs  male,  so  that  if  my 
unborn  child  should  prove  to  be  a  girl,  the  whole  estate 
would  go  to  the  heir-at-law,  Colonel  Harold  Carew,  of 
Pirate's  Peak,  and  I  and  my  daughter  would  be  left  in 
comparative  poverty — poverty,  the  bugbear  of  my  life, 
the  only  form  of  perdition  I  could  understand  and  appre- 
ciate. 

"This,  to  me,  awful  prospect  prostrated  me  again,  so 
that  it  was  many  days  before  I  could  leave  my  bed. 

"Every  one  attributed  my  great  sufferings  to  excessive 
grief  for  the  loss  of  my  husband  and  my  father,  and 
thought  it  natural  enough,  no  doubt. 

"In  the  deepest  of  my  sorrow  I  received  a  letter  from 
my  dear  friend,  Musadora  Percie — a  letter  full  of  affec- 
tion and  sympathy,  in  which  she  implored  me  to  leave 
Richmond,  so  full  of  associations  connected  with  those 
dear  ones  I  had  so  suddenly  and  awfully  lost,  and  to 
come  to  her  and  be  comforted. 

"I  wrote  and  thanked  her  for  her  sympathy  and  affec- 
tion, and  accepted  her  offered  hospitality. 

"I  went  down  to  Raven  Rocks,  and  was  warmly  wel- 
comed by  Musadora,  and  politely,  though  I  thought 
rather  coolly,  received  by  her  husband. 

"I  soon  found  out  the  reason.  Colonel  Percie  was 
madly  in  love  with  his  young  and  beautiful  wife,  and 
morbidly  jealous,  even  of  her  female  friends  and  rela- 
tives. 

"He  wanted  all  her  love,  all  her  thoughts,  all  her  care 
and  all  her  company  to  himself. 

"I  found  my  fair  darling  in  very  delicate1  health.  She 
was  expected  to  become  a  mother.  Under  these  circum- 
stances, I  siiould  have  returned  to  Richmond,  but  she 
would  not  heat  of  my  going  back.  She  clung  to  my  so- 
ciety in  a  nervous  and  trembling  way  that  I  could  only 
account  foi  by  supposing  that  she  feared  to  be  left  alone 


90 


The  History  of  a  Mystery. 


in  the  lonely  old  manor-house  with  her  beloved  but  in* 
sanely  jealous  husband. 

"If  so,  she  had  good  reason  for  her  fears,  as  I  soon 
found  out.  I  had  not  been  at  Raven  Rocks  many  days 
before  I  heard  from  Cassy,  the  confidential  maid  of  Mrs. 
Percie,  that  'Marse  Arthur'  was  coming  home. 

"Now  I  must  tell  you  who  and  what  'Marse  Arthur* 
was. 

"In  our  school  days,  Musadora  had  made  me  the  con- 
fidante of  a  pretty  little  love  story. 

"It  seems  that  she  and  Arthur  Pentliore  were  orphan 
cousins,  brought  up  together  in  the  house  of  their  grand- 
aunt,  Mrs.  Letitia  Montgomery.  But  while  Musadora 
was  the  heiress  of  much  property,  poor  Arthur  was  a 
penniless  dependent  upon  his  relations.  The  two  chil- 
dren grew  up  together  like  brother  and  sister,  and  were 
never  separated  until  the  girl  was  sent  to  boarding-school 
and  the  boy  to  the  Military  Academy  at  West  Point. 

"While  we  were  at  school  together,  she  would  show 
me  the  poetical  effusions  he  used  to  write  to  her  and  send 
from  West  Point. 

"She  did  not  return  his  love;  nor  did  she  even  see  him 
again  from  the  time  they  parted,  when  he  went  to  West 
Point,  until  the  time  of  his  fatal  visit  to  Raven  Rocks, 
after  her  marriage  to  Reginald  Percie. 

"Soon  after  she  left  school  she  met  Reginald,  who  ad- 
mired and  wooed  her,  and  soon  won  her  whole  heart. 
They  were  married  after  a  very  short  courtship. 

"And  now  'Marse  Arthur'  was  coming  home;  not  to 
Raven  Rocks,  however,  which  had  never  been  his  home, 
but  to  Crow  Wood,  cn  the  other  side  of  Eyrie,  which 
had  been  the  home  of  his  own  and  of  his  cousin's  child- 
hood, and  which  was  still  the  residence  of  that  great- 
aunt,  Mrs.  Letitia  Montgomery,  who  had  brought  them 
up. 

"And  knowing  the  antecedents  of  the  young  cousins, 
and  the  impetuous  nature  of  Arthur,  the  compassionate 
heart  of  Musadora,  and  the  morbid  jealousy  of  Reginald 
Percie,  my  soul  was  filled  with  forebodings. 

"I  took  the  first  opportunity  of  speaking  to  Musadora 
on  the  subject. 

"  'I  h-ar  that  Arthur  Pentliore  is  coming  back,'  I  sai<V 


The  History  of  a  Mystery.  91 


u  'Oh,  yes,5  she  answered.  'He  graduated  at  the  Mili- 
tary Academy  last  summer,  and  has  been  waiting  orders 
somewhere.  He  is  now  ordered  out  to  Fort  Ute,  on  the 
Western  frontier  somewhere,  and  is  on  short  leave  to 
come  home  and  bid  good-by  to  his  friends  before  his 
departure/ 

"  'How  did  you  hear  this,  my  dear?  Surely  you  do  not 
correspond  with  him  now,'  I  said,  with  a  feeling  of 
danger. 

"  'Oh,  no,  I  should  not  dare.  It  is  more  than  a  year 
since  I  heard  from  him,  and  more  than  five  years  since  I 
have  seen  him.  I  think  he  must  have  got  over  his  in- 
fatuation by  this  time/ 

"  'Let  us  hope  so;  but  does  Colonel  Percie  know  any- 
thing about  this  youthful  love  affair?' 

"  'Oh,  yes/  she  said,  with  a  sigh;  'that  is  what  is  the 
matter  with  him.  He  found  the  roll  of  manuscript 
verses  that  Arthur  had  written  me,  and  that  I  had  pre- 
served, and  read  them  all.  Amd  I  assure  you,  Kitty,  in 
one  hour  my  handsome  and  courtly  husband  was  trans- 
formed into  a  fiend.  He  tore  them  all  up  and  stamped 
upon  them,  grinding  down  his  heels  as  if  he  would  have 
ground  them  to  powder  if  he  could,  while  his  face  was 
livid  with  rage  as  the  face  of  a  corpse,  and  his  blue  eyes 
blazed  like  living  flames.  It  was  useless  for  me  to  tell 
him  that  the  writer  was  the  playmate  of  my  infancy  and 
childhood,  and  that  I  had  not  seen  him  since  we  parted  to 
go  to  school;  and  that  I  never  had  had  any  other  feeling 
for  hirn  than  that  of  a  calm,  sisterly  affection.  Reginald 
stormed  and  raved  like  a  maniac.  What  a  horrible  thing 
jealousy  is!'  she  added,  with  a  shudder. 

"'It  is  an  insane  and  devilish  passion,'  I  answered; 
'but,  oh,  my  dear,  be  cautious  how  you  arouse  it.  Ar- 
thur must  not  come  here,  nor  must  you  see  him.' 

"I  said  this  with  all  the  solemnity  of  a  dreadful  fore- 
boding, which  proved  only  too  prophetic. 

"But  the  pretty  little  creature  to  whom  I  spoke  bris- 
tled up  like  an  angry  little  bird,  and  answered  with  spirit: 

"  'My  Cousin  Arthur  shall  come  here,  and  I  will  see 
him.  I  adore  my  husband,  but  I  do  not  adore  his  mad 
jealousy.   I  am  faithful  to  him  in  thought  as  I  am  in 


92         The  History  of  a  Mystery. 


word  and  deed,  but  I  will  not  be  treated  like  a  false 
woman  who  cannot  be  trusted/ 

"I  said  not  another  word.  When  such  gentle  doves 
ruffle  up  their  pretty  feathers  and  erect  their  crests,  they 
had  better  be  let  alone.  They  are  not  near  so  manage- 
able as  falcons. 

"The  very  next  day  Arthur  Pentliore  came  in  company 
with  his  great-aunt,  Mrs.  Letitia  Montgomery,  a  stately 
old  lady,  whose  very  presence  commanded  the  sort  of  re- 
spect due  to  royalty. 

"Musadora  and  myself  were  alone  in  the  morning 
>  room  when  the  carriage  was  seen  approaching  the  house. 
S  In  a  fewT  minutes  the  visitors  were  announced  and  en- 
1  tered  the  room. 

"The  stately  old  lady  whom  I  mentioned  before  came 
in  advance.  Behind  her  came  Lieutenant  Arthur  Pent- 
liore, in  the  splendid  uniform  of  his  regiment. 

"Musadora  had  not  seen  him  for  five  years.  I  had 
never  seen  him  at  all. 

"I  examined  him  now  with  the  deepest  interest. 

"He  was  not  a  handsome  man.  He  was  a  most  beau- 
tiful youth.  He  was  not  a  majestic  Apollo.  He  was  a 
most  perfect  Adonis.  He  was  of  medium  height  and  of 
slight,  though  elegant,  form.  He  had  regular,  classical 
features,  very  dark  brown  complexion,  silky,  curling 
black  hair  and  mustache,  large,  solemn  dark  eyes,  shaded 
with  long  black  lashes  and  overarched  with  heavy  black 
brows. 

"As  he  advanced  Musadora  met  him. 

"He  took  both  her  hands  in  his,  and  fixed  his  great, 
grave,  dark  eyes  on  hers,  with  such  a  look  of  passion, 
anguish,  and  infinite  despair  as  I  never  saw  on  any 
human  face  before,  and  as  I  hope  never  to  see  again. 

"She  turned  white  and  dropped  her  eyes  beneath  that 
gaze. 

"And  he,  without  a  word,  let  go  her  hands  and  turned 
away. 

"And  then,  for  the  first  time,  I  was  conscious  that 
Reginald  Percie  had  quietly  entered  the  room  and  had 
witnessed  this  meeting,  and  had  met  that  look. 

"He  stood  less  like  a  living  man  than  like  a  marble 
statue,  so  still  was  his  form^  so  livid  his  face, 


The  History  of  a  Mystery.  93 


"I  held  my  breath  for  very  awe. 
"Dora  turned  pale. 

"Neither  Arthur  Pentliore  nor  Mrs.  Montgomery  had 
caught  the  expression  of  Reginald  Percie's  face,  for 
which  chance  I  thanked  fortune. 

"Yet  there  was  no  outbreak  of  fury  now,  as  there  had 
been  on  the  discovery  of  the  early  love  letters. 

"This  passion  was  too  deep  for  such  display.  He  com- 
pletely controlled  himself.  And  after  a  moment  he 
greeted  Mrs.  Montgomery,  his  aunt  by  marriage,  with 
courtly  politeness. 

"Yet  Dora  and  I  both  felt  that  he  was  all  the  more 
dangerous  for  his  self-control. 

"  'This  is  my  brother-cousin,  Arthur  Pentliore,  Colonel 
Percie/  said  Dora,  with  gentle  dignity,  though  her  fair 
cheek  whitened  and  her  sweet  voice  trembled. 

"Arthur  bowed  low,  on  thus  being  presented  to  his 
elder,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"Colonel  Percie  returned  the  bow,  but  ignored  the 
hand. 

"And  then  the  eyes  of  the  two  men  met.  And  who 
can  say  what  passed  in  that  momentary  mutual  glance, 
between  the  blazing  blue  orbs  ot  Percie  and  the  fierce 
burning  black  eyes  of  Pentliore? 

"  'Come  to  your  room  and  lay  off  your  wraps,  Aunt 
Letitia.  I  have  a  beautiful  room  set  apart  for  you;  and, 
of  course,  as  this  is  the  first  visit  you  have  made  me  in 
my  own  house,  you  have  come  to  spend  some  time/ 
spoke  the  soft  tones  of  Dora  Percie. 

"  'Thanks,  my  love,  no,  it  is  not  worth  while  to  take  off 
my  bonnet.    We  did  not  come  to  stay/  answered  the  • 
stately  old  lady. 

"'Oh,  I  am  so  sorry;  but  if  you  cannot  spend  much 
time,  you  can  at  least  stay  and  dine,'  pleaded  Dora. 

"  'I  thank  you,  my  child,  but  I  think  not.  We  only 
came  to  call  on  you  this  morning. '  Then,  turning  to 
Colonel  Percie,  she  said:  'Arthur  has  not  seen  his 
cousin  fo/r  the  last  six  years,  sir.  She  was  about  four- 
teen years  of  age  then.    She  is  twenty  now.' 

"  'He  finds  her  much  changed,  no  doubt/  answered 
Colonel  Percie,  with  forced  politeness. 


94        The  History  of  a  Mystery. 


"  'He  finds  her  very  much  grown,  at  all  events/  said 
Mrs.  Montgomery,  with  stately  good  humor. 

"  'And  he  finds  her  very  much  improved,  where  there 
seemed  no  possible  room  for  improvement/  I  added. 

"Dora,  smiling,  blushing,  and  utterly  embarrassed, 
looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  us,  her  seeming  flatter- 
ers, until  her  eyes  rested  on  the  beautiful,  dark,  eloquent 
face  of  her  cousin,  when  she  said: 

"  'They  are  all  speaking  for  you,  Arthur.  What  do 
you  say  for  yourself?' 

"  'The  rosebud  has  become  the  rose/  murmured  the 
young  poet,  with  a  look  more  eloquent  than  the  words. 

"Colonel  Percie  pulled  the  bell  so  suddenly  and  sharply 
that  a  servant  appeared  as  if  he  had  been  jerked  into  the 
room, 

"  'Mrs.  Percie,  you  have  forgotten  that  our  guests  have 
had  a  long  ride.  Had  you  not  better  order  some  refresh- 
ments for  them?'  he  then  brusquely  demanded  of  his 
wife. 

"  'My  housekeeper  understands  her  duties,  Colonel 
Percie,'  answered  the  lady,  in  a  low  voice.  Then,  turn- 
ing to  the  waiting  servant,  she  said: 

"  'Will  you  inquire  if  lunch  is  ready?' 

"  'Lunch  is  on  the  table,  madam,'  answered  the  man. 

"  'Go  on,  then.  Come,  Aunt  Letitia.  Reginald,  give 
Aunt  Letitia  your  arm,  if  you  please.  Arthur,  take  Mrs. 
Carew  to  the  table,'  said  the  young  hostess,  waiting  until 
she  saw  her  guests  pass  on  in  the  order  she  had  named, 
and  then  following  them. 

"We  gathered  around  a  table,  on  which  were  served 
some  very  choice  delicacies.  Mrs.  Montgomery,  myself, 
and  even  Dora,  did  full  justice  to  the  danities  set  before 
us.  But  Arthur  Pentliore  ate  little.  And  Colonel  Per- 
cie excused  himself  on  the  ground  of  not  feeling  well, 
and  he  neither  ate  nor  drank.  He  was  evidently  deter- 
mined neither  to  break  bread  nor  drink  wine  with  his 
wife's  cousin. 

"When  lunch  was  over  we  went  back  to  the  drawing- 
room,  where  Arthur  Pentliore,  in  answer  to  the  questions 
put  to  him  by  Dora,  told  us  that  he  had  but  a  month's 
leave  of  absence,  at  the  end  of  which  he  was  to  go  out  to 
Fort  Ute,  on  the  Oregon  River,  which  wa_  to  be  his  post 


The  History  of  a  Mystery.  95 


of  military  duty  for  an  indefinite  number  of  years  to 
come. 

"  'And  I  say  that  a  young  man  had  better  be  dead  than 
to  be  buried  alive  out  there.  I  want  Arthur  to  resign 
his  commission  and  to  stay  at  home  with  me  and  look 
after  the  estate  that  may  one  day  be  his  own,  if  he  pleases 
me  in  this  matter;  but  the  long  and  short  of  it  is,  he  has 
determined  to  go,  even  at  the  risk  of  being  left  out  of  my 
will,'  said  the  old  lady. 

"And  then  they  rose  to  take  leave. 

c:  '1  hope  that  you  and  Mrs.  Carew  and  Colonel  Percie 
will  come  and  dine  with  us  to-morrow.  Can  you  do  so?' 
inquired  Mrs.  Montgomery,  as  she  embraced  her  niece  in 
bidding  her  good-by. 

"  'I — dc  not  know.  I  fear,  not  to-morrow,'  answered 
Dora,  hesitatingly. 

"  'Well,  then,  my  love,  fix  upon  some  early  day — the 
earliei  the  better,  only  suit  yourself  in  coming,  and  come 
and  bring  youi  friend,'  answered  Mrs.  Montgomery,  as 
she  kissed  and  released  her  niece. 

''Arthur  Pentliore  shook  hands  with  his  cousin,  fixing 
his  eye?  upon  hers  with  the  same  involuntary  look  of  in- 
finite sorrow,  tenderness  and  despair,  as  he  let  go  her 
hand. 

"They  were  gone. 

"But  their  carriage  wheels  had  scarcely  rolled  away, 
and  the  sound  of  them  had  scarcely  died  on  the  graveled 
avenue,  when  Colonel  Percie  strode  up  to  his  wife  and 
stood  before  her. 

"He  utterly  forgot  or  disregarded  my  presence,  and 
spoke  to  her  as  if  they  had  been  alone. 

"His  face  was  as  livid  as  it  had  been  before;  his  teeth 
were  set,  and  his  blue  eyes  gleamed  like  blue  steel  stilet- 
toes, as  he  said,  in  a  low,  hard,  stern  tone: 

"  T  have  restrained  myself  with  the  greatest  difficulty 
during  the  last  two  hours,  and  only  out  of  respect  for 
Mrs.  Montgomery,  and  in  consideration  that  she  and  her 
nephew  stood  under  my  roof,  sacred  in  their  characters 
of  guests.  But  now  that  they  have  gone,  I  tell  you, 
Dora,  that  you  must  never  meet  Pentliore  again.  He 
must  never  cross  my  threshold  again,  nor  must  you  enter 
your  aunt's  house  during  the  residence  of  Pentliore  in 


96         The  History  of  a  Mystery. 


this  neighborhood.  No  man  ever  looked  at  a  woman  as 
he  looked  at  you,  unless  he  loved  her  with  unholy  pas- 
sion, and — believed,  at  least,  that  his  sinful  love  was  re- 
turned.' 

"While  he  spoke,  she  gazed  on  him  in  utter  dismay  at 
the  depth  of  degradation  to  which  his  insane  jealousy 
had  descended. 

"When  he  ceased  speaking,  she  found  her  voice,  and, 
in  accents  of  acute  distress,  wailed  forth: 

"'Reginald!  Oh,  Reginald!  How  can  you  dishonor 
yourself  so?' 

"But  without  answering  her  again,  he  turned  on  his 
heel  and  stalked  from  the  room. 

"She  threw  herself  down  on  the  nearest  sofa,  sobbing 
as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

"I  went  and  knelt  down  beside  her,  and  put  my  arms 
around  her  in  silence. 

"'And  even  you  heard  it!'  she  wept  aloud.  'You 
heard  my  husband  fling  that  insult  in  my  face!  Oh, 
that  I  could  have  received  it  and  lived  on!' 

"  'My  darling,  don't  grieve  so  bitterly,'  I  said.  'It  is 
but  the  very  excess  of  your  husband's  love  for  you  that 
inspires  his  insane  jealousy.  Do  not  grieve  that  he 
loves  you  so  excessively.' 

"  'Love  me!  How  can  he  love  me,  if  he  does  not 
honor  me?  Or  how  can  he  honor  me,  if  he  believes  such 
things  of  me?'  she  cried,  passionately,  breaking  into 
fresh  sobs  and  tears. 

"  'My  child,  he  did  not  accuse  you,  he  only  accused 
your  cousin  of  being  in  love  with  you ;  for  which  I  do  not 
blame  him.  I  blame  Pentliore;  he  had  no  right  to  look 
at  you  in  the  way  he  did,'  I  said. 

"  'To  look  at  me  in  the  way  he  did !'  she  echoed. 
'Poor,  dear  boy!  that  was  his  poetry!  Goodness  knows, 
I  have  seen  him  look  at  the  moon  so,  and  at  the  stars!' 
added  Dora,  almost  inclined,  in  her  April-like  tempera- 
ment, to  turn  from  weeping  to  smiling. 

"  'He  may  look  at  the  moon  and  stars  as  often  and  as 
long  and  as  spoonily  as  he  pleases;  but  he  must  not  look 
at  you  so.  You  are  not  moon  and  stars;  you  are  a  beau- 
tiful young  wife  with  a  jealous  husband.  There,  dry 
your  eyes  and  thank  your  fortune  for  a  handsome  man's 


The  History  of  a  Mystery. 


97 


devoted  love ;  Colonel  Percie  is  a  handsome  man  with  all 
his  ugliness/  I  said. 

"And  with  this  paradox  as  a  parting  fling,  I  left  the 
room,  hoping  that  Reginald  Percie,  after  his  burst  of 
temper,  would  return  to  her  side  and  console  her  better 
than  I  had  succeeded  in  doing. 

"I  did  not  meet  this  uncomfortable  pair  again  until 
dinner,  when  they  appeared  to  be  reconciled. 

"But  some  evil  genius  seemed  to  preside  over  the  des- 
tiny of  this  unhappy  household. 

"The  next  day,  in  compliance  with  her  husband's  will, 
Dora  wrote  to  her  Aunt  Montgomery,  declining  an  in- 
vitation to  dinner  upon  the  plea  of  indisposition.  She 
sent  the  note  by  a  groom,  who  returned  with  an  answer, 
expressive  of  Mrs.  Montgomery's  regret. 

"Two  days  passed,  during  which  we  saw  no  more  of 
the  people  from  Crow  Wood.  But  the  evening  of  the 
third  day  we  had  a  surprise. 

"Dora  and  myself,  with  our  shawls  wrapped  around 
us,  were  sitting  out  on  the  front  piazza,  when  Arthur 
Pentliore  rode  up,  leaped  from  his  saddle,  threw  the 
reins  to  his  groom  and  ran  up  the  steps. 

"  'Good-evening,  my  fair  cousin/  he  said;  "good-even- 
ing, Mrs.  Carew.  It  is  a  lovely  evening!  I  came  over 
with  a  message  from  Aunt  Montgomery,  inquiring  about 
Dora's  health.  I  hope  you  are  not  going  to  be  ill?'  he 
added,  his  tone  deepening  to  one  of  grave  tenderness  as 
he  turned  to  his  cousin. 

"  'Oh,  no,  I  am  only  a  little  indisposed;  only  not  quite 
able  to  take  a  long  mountain  ride/  she  answered,  cheer- 
fully. 

"  T  am  very  glad  to  hear  that  it  is  nothing  more  seri- 
ous,' said  Arthur. 

"And,  without  waiting  for  an  invitation  to  do  so,  he 
took  a  seat. 

"  T  hope  Mrs.  Montgomery  is  quite  well/  I  said,  after 
a  while,  just  by  way  of  saying  something  to  break  the 
awkward  silence. 

"  'Oh,  quite  well,  I  thank  you/  he  answered. 

"Then  he  took  up  a  guitar,  upon  which  I  had  been 
playing  previous  to  his  arrival,  and  had  dropped  down 
by  my  side  as  he  had  come  up  the  steps. 


98         The  History  of  a  Mystery, 


"  'Do  you  play,  lieutenant?'  I  inquired. 

"  'Yes,  madam/  he  answered,  dreamily,  as  he  pro- 
ceeded to  tune  the  instrument. 

"  'Will  you  favor  us,  then?'  I  requested,  dreading  the 
arrival  of  Colonel  Percie,  and  thinking  that  it  was  better 
he  should  be  found  playing  to  us  both  than  talking^  to 
Dora. 

"He  bowed  acquiescence  to  my  request,  played  a  short 
prelude,  and  then  began  singing,  'Roll  on,  Silver  Moon.' 

"He  had  a  very  fine  tenor  voice,  clear,  rich  and  full. 
He  sang  so  well  that  I  forgot  my  anxiety  in  the  delight 
of  hearing  him. 

"Then  he  sang  'Beautiful  Star,'  and  when  he  reached 
the  refrain,  'Thou  art  so  near  and  yet  so  far!  his  pa- 
thetic voice  trembled  with  a  pleading  tenderness  that 
brought  the  tears  even  to  my  worldly  eyes.  I  glanced  at 
Dora.  She  was  weeping  softly.  He  finished  his  song 
amid  a  breathless  silence,  that  continued  until  he  gently 
dispelled  it,  as  he  arose  and  stood  before  us,  murmuring : 

"  T  must  say  good-night/ 

"So  saying,  he  raised  the  guitar  again,  tuned  it  anew, 
and  swept  his  fingers  across  its  chords,  awakening  a  low, 
deep  sob,  that  soon  broke  into  a  wild,  thrilling  wail,  from 
which  his  own  voice  arose,  first  soft,  tremulous,  as  from 
a  sea  of  tears,  then  swelling,  throbbing  into  a  weird,  de- 
spairing cry,  that  seemed  the  utterance  of  a  soul's  re- 
nunciation, as  he  sang: 

"'Go,  forget  me! — Why  should  sorrow 

O'er  that  brow  a  shadow  fling? 
Go,  forget  me! — And  to-morrow 

Brightly  smile  and  sweetly  sing; 
Smile,  though  I  should  not  be  near  thee, 
Sing,  though  I  should  never  hear  thee.' 

"Silently  he  laid  down  the  instrument.  Silently  he 
passed  away  in  the  moonlight,  and  a  moment  after 
Colonel  Percie  galloped  up  to  the  house,  threw  himself 
from  his  horse,  flung  the  reins  to  his  groom,  and  ran  up 
the  stairs,  demanding,  impetuously: 

"  'What  man  was  that  I  heard  playing  a  guitar  and 
singing  a  love  song,  as  I  rode  into  the  lawn?' 

"No  one  answered  him. 


The  History  of  a  Mystery. 


99 


"'Was  it  not  Pentliore?'  fiercely  demanded  Reginald 
Percie. 

"  'Yes,  it  was  Arthur/  replied  Dora,  driven  at  length 
to  the  wall,  and  trembling  excessively,  both  in  voice  and 
frame. 

"  'Arthur!'  echoed  Colonel  Percie,  in  a  tone  of  intense 
scorn  and  hatred.  'Arthur!  I  forbid  you,  madam,  to  call 
him  by  so  intimate  a  name.  And  I  require  you  to  ex- 
plain how  he  dared  to  present  himself  here,  and  how  you 
ventured  to  receive  him,  after  my  positive  orders  to  the 
contrary/ 

"She  was  on  the  very  brink  of  an  hysterical  outbreak, 
but  she  constrained  herself  to  reply,  with  gentle  dignity : 

"  'Lieutenant  Pentliore  knew  nothing  of  your  prohibi- 
tion, Colonel  Percie.  Nor  could  I  bring  myself  to  tell 
him  of  it.  I  am  not  on  such  confidential  terms  with  my 
cousin  as  would  enable  me  to  tell  him  that  my  husband 
cannot  trust  us,  and  that  he — my  cousin — had  better 
keep  away.  No,  Colonel  Percie;  if  you  wish  to  banish 
my  cousin  from  the  house,  you  will  have  to  do  it.  For 
I  cannot,  and — I  will  not/ 

"There  was  silence  for  a  few  moments,  during  which 
Reginald  Percie's  face  looked  perfectly  ghastly  in  the 
moonlight,  partly,  I  suppose,  because  he  was  stung  by 
the  words  of  his  wife,  as  well  as  maddened  by  his  own 
extravagant  jealousy. 

"At  length  he  spoke,  but  in  a  voice  quite  unlike  his 
own,  even  in  his  worst  rages: 

"  'Then,  by  all  the  demons  in  and  out  of  Tartarus!  he 
shall  learn  from  me  that  when  he  next  crosses  my  thresh- 
old he  takes  his  life  in  his  hands!' 

"And  so  saying,  he  strode  into  the  house,  leaving  us 
there. 

"Dora  turned  and  threw  herself  upon  my  bosom,  in 
that  passion  of  shame  and  sorrow  that  she  could  no 
longer  control. 

"I  knew  not  what  to  say  to  her,  so  I  said  nothing;  but 
I  kissed  and  caressed  her  in  silence. 

"  'Oh,  if  my  mother  lived!  Oh,  if  my  mother  only 
lived!  She  could  tell  me  what  to  do!'  said  Dora,  with  a 
burst  of  sobs  and  tears. 


loo       The  History  of  a  Mystery. 


"  'If  I  tell  you  what  to  do,  will  you  do  it,  love?'  I  in- 
quired. 

''Yes,  yes!'  she  answered,  desperately,  'for  I  am 
driven  to  the  verge  of  frenzy  by  all  this!' 

"  'Be  patient  for  a  little  while,  darling.  Remember 
that  the  first  week  of  Arthur's  leave  has  already  passed, 
and  there  are  but  three  weeks  left,  and  then  he  must 
go.' 

"'Ah!  but  in  this  first  week  Reginald  has  almost 
driven  me  crazy  with  his  causeless  jealousy.  And  in  the 
next  three  he  will  kill  me,  or  himself,  or  some  one  else!' 
she  cried. 

"And,  oh,  how  awfully,  how  prophetically,  she  spoke! 

"I  did  not  think  so  then.    I  answered,  soothingly: 

"  'Not  if  you  will  do  as  I  advise  you,  dear  Dora.  Will 
you  dc  so?' 

"  'Yes,  yes!   I  told  you  I  would.' 

"  'Well,  then,  write  a  short  note  to  your  cousin,  kindly 
requesting  him  not  to  come  here  again,  and  send  that 
note  off  early  to-morrow  morning/ 

"  'What !  without  giving  him  any  explanation  of  my 
strange  request?'  she  inquired,  raising  her  brows. 

"  'Certainly — without  giving  him  any  explanation/ 

"  'What  will  he  think?' 

"  'It  does  not  matter,  comparatively  speaking,  what  he 
thinks.  But  most  probably  his  intuitions  will  guide  him 
to  a  true  solution  of  the  problem.' 

"'Never!  My  poor,  simple-hearted  boy-poet!  He 
will  never  imagine  that  the  man  I  gave  myself  to  could 
ever  be  jealous  of  the  boy  I  refused.  But  I  will  do  as 
you  counsel  me,  Kate.  And  now  I  think  we  will  go  to 
bed  

"  To  bed — perhaps  to  sleep  V 

''Very  early  the  next  morning  I  arose  from  a  sleepless 
pillow,  dressed  myself  and  went  downstairs,  where  I 
found  Dora  Percie  already  at  her  writing-desk  in  the 
library,  and  in  the  act  of  sealing  up  a  note,  for  which  a 
groom  waited  at  the  door. 

"  'Good-morning,  dear/  she  said,  as  she  arose  and 
kissed  me.    'You  see  I  can  take  advice/ 


One  Fatal  Might. 


"  T  am  glad  for  your  sake,  sweet  Dora/  I  said,  or 
something  like  it. 

''She  turned  to  the  groom  and  gave  him  the  note,  say- 
ing: 

"  'Ride  as  quickly  as  you  can  to  Crow  Wood,  so  as  to 
get  there  if  possible  and  hand  this  to  Mr.  Pentliore  before 
he  goes  out.' 

"The  boy  touched  his  forelock  by  way  of  'reverence/ 
and  went  out. 

"And  in  a  few  minutes  we  heard  him  galloping  off. 

"Several  days  passed,  and  we  saw  no  more  of  Arthur 
Pentliore,  until,  one  fatal  night,  when  our  household  was 
wrecked  and  the  powers  of  evil  triumphed! 


CHAPTER  IX. 
one   Fatal  night. 

"The  days  that  followed  were  full  61  the  dark  and 
gloomy  calm  that  precedes  the  fell,  destructive  storm ! 

"Dora  Percie  pined  herself  ill  with  an  intense  fear  that 
took  the  form  of  foreboding.  Colonel  Percie  misinter- 
preted her  illness.  In  his  jealous  madness,  he  convinced 
himself  that  she  was  grieving  after  her  absent  lover.  He 
brooded  over  this  impression  until  he  became  a  morose 
monomaniac  on  the  subject.  He  grew  moody,  sullen 
and  snappish  as  a  maddog. 

"Events  went  on  in  this  way  for  nearly  two  weeks,  and 
the  month  of  Arthur's  leave  was  drawing  very  near  its 
close,  when  we  might  hope  to  breathe  freely  again. 

"About  this  time,  our  monomaniac  seemed  determined 
to  try  an  experiment  and  test  the  truth  of  his  jealous  sus- 
picions. 

"So,  one  evening,  he  told  his  wife  that  on  the  next 
morning  he  should  start  for  Richmond  on  business,  and 
should  be  absent  for  a  week.  And  the  same  night  he  or- 
dered his  servant  to  pack  his  valise  and  to  be  ready  to 
wait  on  him. 

"Very  early  the  next  morning,  attended  by  his  valet, 
he  set  out  for  Eyrie,  to  take  the  morning  stagecoach  for 
the  city.    He  rode  in  the  close  carriage,  and  his  valet 


102 


One  Fatal  Night. 


rode  on  the  box-seat  with  the  coachman.  When  the 
coachman  brought  the  carriage  back,  he  reported  that 
his  master  had  reached  Eyrie  in  time  to  intercept  the 
early  coach,  and  that  he  had  set  out  for  Richmond. 

"That  night  Dora  and  I  slept  together  for  company. 
And  we  talked  nearly  all  night.  We  speculated  about 
our  future  children.  And  we  promised  each  other  that 
if  one  child  should  be  a  boy  and  the  other  a  girl,  they 
should  marry.  I  was  then  looking  every  day  for  the  ar- 
rival of  my  child.  Dora  expected  to  see  hers  in  about 
two  weeks.  At  that  time  the  great  subject  of  my  anx- 
iety was  that  my  child  should  be  a  boy ;  for  on  the  chance 
of  its  being  a  boy  hung  all  my  hopes  of  earthly  prosper- 
ity ;  a  boy  would  bring  me  wealth,  a  girl  only  poverty. 
And  as  our  talk  had  reawakened  and  intensified  all  my 
anxiety,  I  could  not  compose  myself  to  rest,  even  after 
Dora  had  talked  herself  to  sleep. 

"The  next  morning  I  was  very  weary. 

"But  Dora  seemed  stronger,  fresher  and  brighter  than 
she  had  been  for  the  last  two  weeks.  We  breakfasted 
at  our  usual  hour. 

"The  morning  was  so  fine  that  I  proposed  to  Dora  that 
we  should  take  a  ride,  adding  that  we  had  not  been  out 
so  long,  and  that  we  greatly  needed  ;he  fresh  air. 

"  'Oh,  no,  no,  no !'  said  the  poor  child,  eagerly,  T  will 
not  leave  the  house  until  after  Arthur  has  left  the  neigh- 
borhood. I  would  not  meet  him  again,  I  would  not  even 
run  the  least  risk  of  meeting  him  again,  especially  in  my 
husband's  absence — no !  not  for  the  preservation  of  my 
own  life,  if  that  were  necessary.' 

"I  saw  that  she  was  right,  and  ceased  to  urge  the 
point. 

"  'But  you  might  go,  Kate.  There  is  no  earthly  rea- 
son why  you  should  not  go.  Let  me  ring  and  order  the 
carriage  for  you/  she  added,  kindly. 

"  'No,  indeed,  I  do  not  care  to  go  without  you/  I  re- 
plied. 

"And  though  she  still  urged  me  to  take  an  airing,  I 
continued  firm  in  my  resolution  to  stay  home  and  keep 
her  company. 

"I  felt  very  weary  all  that  day.  I  ascribed  my  weari- 
ness to  the  effects  of  the  sleepless  night  I  had  passed. 


One  Fatal  Night. 


10) 


"And  so  after  luncheon  I  left  Dora  Percie  lounging  in 
an  easy-chair  and  reading  a  new  book,  and  I  went  to  my 
own  room  and  lay  down,  and  soon  fell  asleep. 

"I  slept  for  several  hours.  When  I  awoke,  the  short 
winter  afternoon  was  almost  over.  The  sun  was  sinking 
to  his  setting. 

"I  saw  that  it  was  time  to  dress  for  dinner,  so  I  started 
up  and  rang  for  my  maid  Agatha,  an  elderly  woman,  who 
had  been  my  nurse  and  was  now  my  sole  attendant. 

"But  before  my  summons  could  be  answered,  a  feel- 
ing of  illness  came  over  me  and  compelled  me  to  sit 
down. 

"When  Agatha  entered  the  room,  I  told  her  to  lay  out 
my  dress  and  help  me  to  get  ready  for  dinner. 

"But  she  looked  in  my  face  and  smiled,  and  said: 

"  'I  finks  if  I  wTas  you,  young  mistress,  'stead  o' 
dressin'  up  for  dinner,  I  jes'  ondress  and  lay  down  ag'in/ 

"  'Why  should  I,  Agatha?'  I  inquired. 

"  '  'Cause'  honey,  I  finks  you  looks  proper  bad,  and 
you'll  be  worse  afore  you'se  better,  and  dere'll  be  a 
derival  in  de  famberly  before  many  hours,'  was  her  en- 
couraging reply. 

"I  followed  the  woman's  advice,  because  I  knew  that 
she  was  a  very  experienced  nurse,  and  also  because  I  was 
compelled  by  fast  increasing  illness  to  do  so. 

"  'Agatha,  you  can  attend  to  me  yourself,  I  hope  ?'  I 
inquired. 

"  'Who,  me  ?  Well,  I  reckon  I  ought  to,  honey !  I 
nussed  enough  ladies  in  my  time.' 

"  'Very  well,  then.  Make  no  noise.  Do  not  alarm 
any  one.  I  do  not  wish  to  have  Mrs.  Percie  agitated  in 
her  present  delicate  condition.  Do  not  let  her  know 
anything  about  my  illness  until  all  is  safely  over,'  I  said. 

"  'Hi,  honey, 'who  you  teachin'?  your  grandmammy? 
I  got  a  headpiece  on  my  shoulders,  I  is.  What  call  I 
got  to  make  any  fuss  'bout  sich  a  simple,  nateral  event 
as  a  derival  in  de  famberly?  You  tell  me  where  to  find 
everyfing  I  want  afore  you  gets  any  wuss  and  leabe  de 
res'  to  me.   Dere  now.' 

"I  gave  the  nurse  my  instructions,  where  to  get  every 
article  that  she  asked  for. 

"Sometimes  she  had  to  leave  the  room,  but  she  always 


104  One  Fatal  Night. 


locked  the  door  after  her,  to  prevent  the  intrusion  of 

anybody  during  her  absence. 

"And  sometimes  she  had  to  ring  for  one  of  the  house- 
maids to  bring  her  something  from  the  kitchen,  but  then 
she  always  'interviewed'  the  assistant  in  the  hall  outside 
the  chamber  door. 

"All  these  precautions  were  taken  to  prevent  Dora  Per- 
cie  from  being  disturbed. 

"Meantime  it  grew  dark  and  Agatha  had  to  light  the 
chamber  lamps. 

"In  the  midst  of  my  trouble  I  wondered  why  nobody 
came  to  call  me  to  dinner,  for  certainly  the  dinner  hour 
had  come  and  gone. 

"In  an  interval  of  suffering,  I  inquired  of  Agatha: 

"  'Has  no  one  been  up  here  to  call  me  down  to  din- 
ner?' 

"  'No,  honey/ 

"  'Then  they  must  know  that  I  am  sick.    And  Mrs. 
Percie  will  find  it  out,  and  agitate  herself/  I  said. 

"  'No,  honey,  dey  don't.  Nobody  but  Marty  has  been 
anigh  de  room,  and  she  don't  know  nuffin'  but  what  I  tell 
her,  and  I  tell  her  as  how  you  got  a  burning  headadhe, 
and  want  hot  water  to  bave  your  feet.  Dat  what  she 
finks,  and  I  tell  her  not  to  let  on  to  anybody,  fear  it  will 
come  to  Mrs.  Percie's  ears,  and  *sturb  her  mine/  the  old 
woman  explained. 

"  'Quite  right,  Agatha.    Still,  it  is  very  strange  Dora 
has  not  sent  for  me  to  come  to  dinner,'  I  said. 

"And  this  subject  of  speculation  divided  my  mind  with 
that  other  question,  whether  my  expected  child  would  be 
a  girl  or  a  boy,  until  I  became  too  ill  to  care  for  anything  ^ 
'in  the  heavens  above,  the  earth  beneath,  or  the  waters 
under  the  earth/ 

"The  sun  had  long  set.  And 

"The  first  watch  of  the  night  was  kept 

By  the  red  planet  Mars — ' 

when  my  long-looked-for  child  arrived. 

"  'As  purty  a  little  gal  as  ebber  you  did  clap  yer  two 
looking  eyes  on,  young  mist'ess/  said  the  nurse,  as  she 
laid  the  little  creature  beside  me. 

"Yes ;  it  was  a  girl.    Yes,  Musa  Percie,  it  was  yourself. 


One  Fatal  Night.  105 


Musa  Percie  you  are  by  marriage,  but  not  by  birth  I 
Musa  Carew  you  were  by  birth,  born  to  poverty,  not  to 
wealth ! 

"I  had  no  heart  to  welcome  the  little  girl  whose  birth 
took  away  all  my  wealth,  and  gave  me  only  poverty  in- 
stead. 

"I  looked  at  her  and  kissed  her  sadly,  without  any  of 
a  young  mother's  rapture — almost  without  any  of  a 
mother's  affection. 

"  'Now,  honey,  as  all  is  over  so  safe  and  nice,  and 
everyfing  in  order,  mayn't  I  jes'  go  and  tell  Miss  Dora? 
And  Lor'!  won't  she  be  s 'prised,  just?  Mayn't  I  go  now 
and  tell  her,  honey?'  pleaded  the  old  woman,  burning 
with  all  a  gossip's  desire  to  run  and  tell  such  news. 

"  'Yes,  Gatha,  go  and  tell  Mrs.  Percie   But  stop ! 

stop !  we'll  do  better  than  that.  We'll  put  a  better  sur- 
prise on  her  than  that.  Go,  and  don't  hint  a  word  of 
what  has  happened  yet  to  any  living  soul ;  but  ask  Mrs. 
Percie  please  to  come  up  here  and  see  me.  And  then 
when  she  comes  we  will  show  her  the  baby  and  see  how 
she  looks,'  I  said. 

'Tor,  notwithstanding  my  disappointment,  I  felt  that 
I  could  somewhat  enjoy  Dora's  surprise. 

"My  old  nurse,  chuckling  to  herself  with  gleeful  an- 
ticipation of  fun,  went  out  and  locked  the  door  on  the 
outside  and  took  the  key  with  her  to  prevent  any  in- 
truder coming  in  and  making  a  premature  discovery  dur- 
ing her  absence. 

"I  lay  there,  very  down-hearted  on  account  of  my  girl, 
yet  looking  forward  with  some  satisfaction  to  the  en- 
trance of  Dora  Percie. 

"In  about  ten  minutes  Agatha  re-entered  the  room 
alone. 

"'Is  Mrs.  Percie  coming  directly?'  I  inquired. 

"  'Honey,  when  I  'quired  for  Miss  Dora,  dey  tell  me  as 
Miss  Dora  go  out  jes'  as  dinner  was  gwine  on  de  table, 

and  an't  been  in  since   Now  don't  you  go  startin' 

up  in  bed  and  starin'  in  dat  way,  honey!  You'll  do 
yourself  a  mischief !" 

"The  old  woman  added  this  piece  of  advice  to  her 
communication,  when  she  saw  the  effect  of  that  commu- 
nication upon  me, 


lo6  One  Fatal  Night. 


"  'Dora  Percie  went  out  just  before  dinner — that  must 
have  been  at  dusk — and  has  not  been  in  since.  That  ac- 
counts for  no  one  coming  to  call  me  to  dinner.  But 
how  very  strange!  and  how  late  it  must  be!  What 
o'clock  is  it  now,  Agatha?' 

"  'Honey,  it's  nigh  ten  o'clock.  And  by  de  same 
token,  you  mustn't  'cite  yerself  any  more  one  bit  'bout 
Miss  Dora.  She  an't  gone  often  de  plantashun  no  how, 
'cause  she  walked.  And  she  big  'nough  to  take  care  o' 
herse'f.  Now  you's  jes  got  to  hab  some  nice  tea  and 
toase,  and  den  go  to  sleep.  Now  I  gvvine  down  to  get 
your  tea  and  toase.  And  you  lay  dere  good  and  quiet 
till  I  come  back,'  said  Agatha,  as  she  got  up  to  leave 
the  room. 

"Soon  my  nurse  brought  me  my  light  refreshment,  of 
which  I  partook  to  her  great  satisfaction.  Finding  me 
still  wakeful  and  excitable,  she  gave  me  an  opiate.  It 
was  malpractice,  no  doubt,  but  it  was  the  practice  at  that 
day,  especially  among  old  nurses.  And  on  that  particu- 
lar occasion  I  think  it  happened  to  do  good.  But  for 
that  opiate,  which  if  it  did  not  give  me  sleep,  at  least 
dulled  all  my  sensibilities,  I  never  could  have  lived 
through  the  night  of  horror  that  followed. 

"And  now,  I  must  say,  that  for  the  knowledge  of  the 
events  of  that  night,  outside  my  own  chamber,  I  am  in- 
debted to  hearsay  alone. 

"Dora  had  been  summoned  to  the  bedside  of  a  dying 
old  woman,  a  slave  who  lived  in  an  open  space  beyond  a 
belt  of  woods  across  the  lawn.  The  woman's  husband, 
old  'Sias,  had  come  for  her,  and  she  had  gone  with  him, 
without  notifying  any  of  her  household.  The  sick 
woman  was  dying  when  Dora  arrived  at  the  cabin,  and 
passed  away  with  Dora's  hand  clasped  in  hers. 

"Dora  arose  gravely  from  her  seat,  kissed  the  calm 
dark  face,  closed  the  eyes,  drew  the  white  sheet  up  over 
the  head,  and  then  signed  to  the  negro  woman  to  come 
and  take  her  place. 

"As  with  reverent  manner  they  approached  the  death- 
bed, Dora  whispered : 

"  'Send  up  to  the  house  for  anything  that  is  needed.  I 
am  going  there  now." 

"Then  she  looked  for  'Sias,  to  see  if  perhaps  he  was 


One  Fatal  Night  107 


able  to  attend  her  back.  But  the  poor  old  bereaved  hus- 
band was  kneeling  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  sobbing  as  if 
his  heart  would  break.  So  Dora  glided  softly  out  of  the 
cottage,  wrapped  her  shawl  closely  around  her,  and  took 
her  way  to  the  house. 

"She  was  not  afraid.  There  really  seemed  to  be  no 
cause  for  fear.  She  crossed  the  narrow  belt  of  woods 
and  entered  upon  the  front  lawn,  from  which  she  could 
see  the  face  of  her  house,  lighted  up  here  and  there  by 
the  evening  lamps  shining  through  the  crimson  curtains 
of  the  windows  whose  shutters  were  not  yet  closed. 

"As  she  was  crossing  the  lawn,  however,  she  heard 
the  clatter  of  horse's  hoofs  coming  from  the  direction  of 
the  house  down  the  evergreen  avenue. 

"While  she  was  still  wondering  who  the  horseman 
could  be,  he  came  into  full  view,  and  seemed  to  recognize 
her  at  the  same  instant  that  she  identified  him.  He  was 
Arthur  Pentliore. 

"She  had  scarcely  ascertained  this  alarming  fact  be- 
fore he  turned  out  of  the  evergreen  avenue  and  cantered 
briskly  across  the  lawn  in  her  direction.  She  stood  sur- 
prised, amazed,  transfixed,  unable  to  fly. 

"As  he  drew  near  he  leaped  from  his  horse,  and,  lead- 
ing him  by  the  bridle,  walked  up  to  her  side,  holding  out 
his  free  hand  and  saying,  in  his  grave,  sweet  way : 

"  'Cousin  Dora,  I  am  so  glad  to  meet  you.  I  have 
been  up  to  the  house  to  see  you ;  but  they  told  me  that 
you  were  not  at  home,  and  they  could  not  tell  me  where 
you  were.  And-r-may  Hieaven  forgive  me  for  the  ill 
thought,  Dora ;  but — I  coupled  this  -asserted  absence  of 
yours  with  the  part  of  the  strange  note  you  sent  to  me, 
and  I  imagined  that  you  were  in  all  the  time,  and  had 
only  given  orders  to  be  denied  to  me.  So  I  mounted 
my  horse  and  set  out  for  home,  feeling  very  bitterly  sad ; 
for,  Dora,  I  had  only  come  to  say  good-by.  I  am 
going  away  to-morrow.  But  before  I  say  good-by, 
cousin,  I  must  ask  you  to  forgive  me  for  the  injustice  I 
did  you  in  my  thought.  I  should  have  known  that  you 
were  incapable  of  such  an  act.  And  I  must  also  entreat 
you,  dear  Dora,  to  tell  me  in  what  manner  I  have  been 
so  unhappy  as  to  offend  you,  that  you  should  write  to  me 


io8 


One  Fatal  Night. 


such  a  strange,  cruel  note  as  I  received  from  you,  my 
sister-cousin  ?' 

"As  he  spoke  he  took  both  her  hands  in  his  own 
and  held  them  fast,  while  he  looked  in  her  face  with  that 
sad,  wistful  gaze  that  seemed  at  once  a  history  of  woe, 
a  prophecy  of  ruin,  and  an  appeal  for  sympathy. 

"But  she  pulled  her  hands  from  him  with  sudden  vio- 
lence and  terror,  breathlessly  exclaiming : 

"  'You  have  done  no  wrong  at  all !  You  have  not  of- 
fended me  in  the  least.  But  oh !  go !  go !  go !  Every 
instant  that  you  stay  here  is  fraught  with  deadly  peril 
to  yourself  and  others.' 

"And  as  she  spoke,  she  gazed  around  upon  the  lonely 
night  scene  in  the  park,  as  if  she  half  expected  to  see 
some  murderous  enemy  start  from  behind  a  bush  or  tree 
— though  she  at  that  moment  believed  that  her  husband, 
who,  in  his  jealous  fury,  had  threatened  her  cousin's  life, 
was  a  hundred  miles  away. 

"  'Oh,  go !  go !  In  mercy  to  yourself  and  me,  leave 
this  place !' 

"And  with  these  words,  she  sprang  from  his  side  and 
ran  on  toward  the  house. 

"He  gazed  at  her  in  utter  amazement  for  an  instant, 
and  then  sped  after  her,  and  overtook  her,  and  caught  and 
held  her  hand,  as  he  exclaimed: 

"  'Dora,  for  Heaven's  sake  what  is  the  meaning  of 
this?  I  swear  that  I  will  not  leave  you  till  you  tell  me! 
If  my  presence  does  not  offend  you,  whom  does  it  offend? 
Tell  me  that,  and  I  will  go.' 

"'Colonel  Percie!'  she  answered,  desperately.  And 
then  she  bowed  her  head  and  felt  as  if  she  should  die  of 
shame  at  the  admission  that  her  husband  could  be  jeal- 
ous of  her. 

"  'Good  Heaven!'  slowly  murmured  Arthur  Pentliore. 
'Can  that  be  possible?  Then,  indeed,  for  mine  own 
honor  as  well  as  yours,  I  must  say  good-by.  Good-by, 
Dora — sweet  cousin,  good-by!  And  may  you  be  very 
happy!' 

"And  as  he  spoke,  he  raised  her  hand  to  his  lips, 
dropped  it,  and  turned  away. 

"'Stand,  villain!'  suddenly  cried  a  stern  voice  near. 
And  Reginald  Percie  strode  out  from  a  group  of  alder 


One  Fatal  Night.  109 


bushes  and  stood  before  him,  with  a  revolver  leveled 
within  three  feet  of  his  heart. 

"Dora  Pereie  shrieked,  dropped  upon  her  knees,  and 
held  up  her  hands  in  agonized,  speechless  deprecation. 

"Arthur  Pentliore  stood  still,  confronting  his  deadly 
enemy. 

"  'Colonel  Percie,'  he  said,  'how  dare  you  use  oppro- 
bious  language  to  me?  How  dare  you  bar  my  path  and 
threaten  my  life?  Lower  your  weapon,  sir,  and  let  me 
pass.' 

"  'Budge  one  step,  and  you  are  a  dead  man!'  cried 
Colonel  Percie. 

"  'Oh,  Reginald!  Reginald!  Mercy!  Mercy!'  shrieked 
Dora,  clasping  her  hands. 

"Silence,  traitress!  I  told  you  what  I  would  do  if  I 
ever  should  catch  this  scoundrel  in  your  company  again. 
I  have  caught  him  now.  I  knew  I  should  catch  him,  if  I 
only  watched  and  waited  long  enough!  I  have  caught 
him  now!  Caught  him  in  the  dead  of  night  alone  with 
you  in  the  park!  And  he  shall  take  the  consequences  of 
his  and  your  act.' 

"  'Sir!'  sternly  interrupted  Arthur  Pentliore,  'you  shall 
not  so  belie  my  cousin  in  my  presence.  This  meeting 
was  accidental  on  her  part.  I  came  here  only  to  bid  her 
good-by.    She  did  not  expect  me.' 

"  'You  lie!'  coarsely  retorted  Reginald  Percie,  forget- 
ting every  gentlemanly  instinct  of  his  nature. 

"  'Colonel  Percie!'  exclaimed  Arthur  Pentliore,  with 
flashing  eyes. 

"'Oh,  Heaven  help  me!  Oh,  Reginald!  Reginald i' 
wildly  pleaded  Dora,  holding  up  her  hands. 

"  'Be  silent,  I  command  you,  traitress!'  roared  the  in- 
furiated man. 

"Then,  turning  to  his  fancied  rival,  'he  hissed: 

"  T  say  you  lie,  you  villain,  when  you  call  this  meeting 
an  accidental  one!  What!  an  accidental  meeting  be- 
tween my  wife  and  yourself  in  the  park,  at  dead  of  night? 
Faugh!  It  was  a  preconcerted  meeting.  Preconcerted, 
because  she  thought  that  I  was  away  at  Richmond.  I 
am  here.  I  told  her  if  ever  I  caught  you  by  her  side 
again,  I  would  kill  you  before  her  eyes.  And  by  all  the 
fiends  in  flames!  I  will  do  it!    Thief!  coward!  miscreant! 


no 


One  Fatal  Night. 


die  in  your  wickedness!'  leveling  his  pistol  straight  at  the 
heart  of  his  supposed  rival. 

"'Reginald!  Oh,  Heaven!'  shrieked  Dora  Percie, 
starting  forward. 

"But  there  was  a  flash  of  fire,  a  sharp  report,  and  the 
body  of  Arthur  Pentliore  leaped  into  the  air  and  fell  for- 
ward in  a  heap,  face  downward — dead! 

"An  hour  after  this,  Marty,  one  of  the  colored  women 
in  whose  charge  Mrs.  Percie  had  left  the  remains  of  poor 
Henny,  was  crossing  the  park,  on  her  way  from  the  negro 
quarters  to  the  house,  for  the  purpose  of  procuring  some 
necessaries  for  the  occasion,  when  she  came  upon  what 
she  first,  in  affright,  believed  to  be  two  dead  bodies,  lying 
in  the  snow,  near  the  group  of  alder  bushes. 

"Without  daring  to  go  near  enough  to  identify  them, 
she  turned  and  fled  back  to  the  quarters  and  gave  the 
alarm. 

"And  soon  a  half  dozen  negro  men,  with  lanterns, 
gathered  to  go  to  the  fatal  spot. 

"They  were  followed  a  short  distance  behind  by  at 
least  twice  that  number  of  frightened  but  intensely  curi- 
ous women. 

"The  men  drew  near  the  group,  stooped  and  lowered 
their  lanterns  to  examine  the  bodies. 

"  'Good  Lord !'  exclaimed  one,  in  accents  of  horror. 
'It  is  Marse  Arthur  Pentliore,  in  a  puddle  of  blood!' 

"'Oh!  oh!  oh!'  cried  another,  with  sudden  grief  and 
terror.    'It's  our  mistess!  our  mistess  murdered  here!' 

"And  all  the  negro  men  and  women  crowded  around 
the  group,  with  exclamations,  groans  and  cries  of  grief, 
fear,  horror  and  unspeakable  amazement. 

"And  then  they  began  hurriedly  to  speak  of  moving 
the  bodies  up  to  the  house.  And  some  of  the  men  were 
dispatched  to  the  quarters  to  bring  doors. 

"And  they  went  quickly  on  their  errand,  spreading 
consternation  as  they  passed  among  the  negroes  who  had 
not  yet  heard  of  the  catastrophe. 

"They  soon  returned,  bringing  two  doors,  which  they 
laid  upon  the  ground  near  the  bodies. 

"The  men  tenderly  raised  the  corpse  of  Arthur  Pent- 
liore and  carefully  laid  it  out  upon  one  of  the  doors. 

"The  women  reverentially  approached  the  form  of 


One  Fatal  Night. 


in 


their  mistress,  but  when  they  began  to  touch  it  they 
found  that  she  still  breathed. 

"  'She's  alibe  !  Oh,  thanks  be  to  goodness,  she's  alibe  !" 
exclaimed  Martha,  the  woman  who  first  made  the  dis- 
covery. 

"  'Run,  Martin!  Run  fast  as  you  kin  to  the  quarters 
and  fetch  a  mattress  and  some  clean  blankets.  We 
mustn't  lay  her  on  no  door,'  she  added. 

"The  man  ran  as  fast  as  his  limbs  could  carry  him,  and 
soon  came  back  with  a  mattress  and  a  pile  of  blankets  on 
his  head. 

"The  mattress  was  prepared,  and  the  form  of  the  poor 
insensible  young  wife  was  laid  upon  it  and  carefully  cov- 
ered over  with  the  blankets. 

"One  man  was  sent  on  before  to  warn  the  housekeeper 
at  Raven  Rocks  of  what  was  approaching. 

"And  four  men  raised  the  mattress,  with  its  sorrowful 
lading,  by  the  four  corners,  and  carried  it  slowly  toward 
the  house. 

"Finally  two  men,  bearing  the  door  with  the  dead  body 
of  Arthur  Pentliore,  brought  up  the  rear.  And  so  the 
mournful  procession  moved  on. 

"Nc  words  can  convey  any  adequate  idea  of  the  con- 
sternation and  horror  that  seized  the  household  when  the 
insensible  form  of  their  beloved  young  mistress  and  the 
gorv  corpse  of  Arthur  Pentliore  were  brought  into  the 
half. 

"I  did  not  learn  the  awful  facts  for  some  hours  after- 
ward. They  were  very  carefully  and  quite  properly  kept 
from  me. 

"The  corpse  of  Arthur  Pentliore  was  laid  out  on  a  bed 
in  a  spare  room,  to  remain  there  until  the  authorities  of 
Eyrie  could  be  notified  of  what  had  happened. 

'The  revolver  and  an  odd  glove  that  had  been  picked 
up  near  the  scene  of  the  murder  were  also  laid  with  the 
body. 

"Dora  Percie  was  taken  to  her  own  chamber,  un- 
dressed and  put  to  bed.  And  my  Agatha,  as  an  experi- 
enced nurse,  was  called  to  attend  her,  while  waiting  the 
arrival  of  the  physician  who  had  been  sent  for. 

"Dora  Percie  recovered  from  her  deadly  swoon;  but 
she  never  recovered  her  reason.    That  had  fled  forever! 


112  One  Fatal  Night. 


"In  the  course  of  that  night  she  gave  birth  to  a  son, 
born  some  weeks  before  his  natural  time.  The  doctor 
had  not  arrived.  My  Agatha  was  her  sole  attendant,  as 
she  had  been  mine.  And  with  this  opportunity  came  to 
me  the  overpowering  temptation  to  commit  that  act, 
whose  memory,  in  the  midst  of  all  my  splendor,  has  filled 
my  life  with  gloom.  And  this  was  the  way  in  which  it 
happened. 

"I  told  you  that  my  nurse,  finding  early  in  the  evening 
that  I  was  restless  and  sleepless,  gave  me  a  dose  of 
opium  to  quiet  my  nervous  system. 

"And  so  while  all  the  horrors  of  that  most  horrible 
night  were  being  enacted  in  the  park  and  in  the  house,  I 
lay  in  my  quiet  chamber,  not  sleeping  indeed,  nor  need- 
ing sleep,  but  with  every  nerve  at  rest,  in  a  state  of 
heavenly  calm. 

"It  was  about  midnight  that  my  nurse  entered  the 
room,  to  see  how  I  was  getting  on.  Finding  me  awake 
and  perfectly  calm,  she  ventured  to  break  the  lightest 
part  of  her  news  in  this  way: 

"  'Don't  reckon  as  you'll  see  Miss  Dora  to-night, 
honey/ 

"  'Why  ?'  I  inquired,  serenely,  feeling  very  indifferent 
upon  that  and  every  other  subject. 

"  'Well,  yer  see,  honey,  she's  sick.  And  I  do  suppose 
as  dere  will  be  anodder  derival  in  de  fambly  'fore  morn- 
ing.' 

"  'Is  that  so?'  I  inquired,  with  perhaps  a  trifle  more 
interest  than  I  had  felt  before. 

"  'Yes,  honey,  and  not  a  soul  to  tend  to  her,  'cept  it's 
only  me.  Boy  sent  arter  de  doctor  to  Eyrie  airly  in  de 
ebenin'  come  back,  and  say  how  he  can't  find  him.  No- 
body to  tend  to  de  madam  but  only  me.  Cassy  she  down 
bad  as  she  kin  wid  a  raging  toothache.  An't  no  good 
to  nobody.  Nobody  to  tend  to  de  madam  but  me,  I 
dunno  what  in  de  name  of  de  Lor'  she'd  a  done  ef  I 
hadn't  happen  to  be  here  'long  o'  you.' 

"Agatha  did  not  drop  a  hint  of  the  awful  tragedy  in 
the  park,  or  of  the  consequent  insanity  and  dangerous 
condition  of  Dora  Percie.  She  said  nothing  that  was 
likely  to  disturb  me.  But  my  interest  in  her  news  was 
increasing. 


One  Fatal  Night.  1 1 3 


"  '  'Gatha/  I  said,  'you  have  not  told  any  one  yet  of  my 
baby?' 

"  'No,  mistess.  'Deed  eberybody  so  took  up  'long 
ob   No,  mistess;  I  an't  told  nobody.' 

"  'Then  don't  tell  them  a  word  about  it  just  yet.  And 
don't  tell  any  one  about  Dora's  baby  until  you  come  and 
tell  me  first.    Do  you  hear?' 

"  'Yes,  mistess.  And  now,  honey,  seein'  as  you  is  so 
well,  I  go  'tend  to  my  oder  patient.'  And  she  went 
away.  An  hour  after,  Agatha  came  to  my  room,  bring- 
ing a  little  white  bundle  of  wailing  life  in  her  hands. 

"  'Here,  mistess,  for  de  love  ob  de  Lor',  take  dis  little 
fing  and  put  it  to  yer  breas',  and  take  care  ob  it.  Its 
mother  can't.' 

"  'How  is  Dora?'  I  inquired  first. 

"  'Well,  she's — she's — she's  not  able  to  take  care  ob  de 
baby  yet,  honey.  Not  like  you,  you  know.  Facts  is, 
she  don't  even  know  as  she's  got  any  baby,'  replied  the 
old  woman. 

''Dora  was  dying,  though  the  woman  properlv  enough 
refrained  from  telling  me  then,  and  for  some  hours  after- 
ward. Then  I  asked  the  question  that  I  had  been  burn- 
ing to  ask  ever  since  she  brought  the  baby  in. 

"  'Is  this  child  a  boy  or  a  girl?' 

"  'A  little  deliky  boy,  honey.' 

"  *  'Gatha !  Does  anybody  know  about  its  being  a  boy?' 

"'No,  honey.  Not  eben  its  moder;  nor  yet  about  its 
bein'  here  at  all.  There  ain't  a  soul  in  this  part  of  the 
house  but  me  to  know  anyfing  about  anyfing.' 

"  'Then,  'Gatha,  listen  to  me.  If  you  tell  about  Mrs. 
Percie's  baby  at  all,  tell  everybody  that  it  is  a  girl.  And 
tell  them  that  mine  is  a  bov.  Will  you  do  this  for  me, 
'Gatha?' 

"  'Yes,  honey,  sure,'  said  this  devoted  slave.  'Wouldn't 
I  do  anyfing  in  de  worl5  you  tell  me  to  do,  even  a'most  ef 
I  was  to  die  for  it?' 

"  'And  do  I  not  know  that  you  would,  my  dear,  faith- 
ful 'Gatha?  Then  go  to  Mrs.  Percie  and  attend  to  her, 
and  as  soon  as  you  can  leave  her  with  safety  come  back 
to  me.  And  then  I  will  tell  you  the  reason  why  I  wish  to 
swap  children  with  her  without  letting  her,  or  any  one 
else,  know  anything  about  it,'  I  said. 


114 


One  Fatal  Night, 


"  'I  mind  what  you  say,  honey.  And  I  s'pects  I  knows 
what  you  mean.  I  has  heard  people  talk  'bout  de  Carew 
'state  bein'  'tailed  on  to  de  boy  heirs,  and  how  you 
wouldn't  have  nuffin  of  it,  ei  so  be  your  chile  was  a  gal/ 
said  the  nurse. 

"  That  is  the  case,  'Gatha.  And  I  know  you  will 
6tand  by  me,'  I  said,  delighted  to  find  that  she  under- 
stood me  so  easily,  and  would  serve  me  so  thoroughly. 

"I  spent  the  next  two  hours  in  fighting  down  all  con- 
scientious scruples.  Dora  Percie,  I  said,  being  a  young 
wife,  might  have  many  more  boys  after  this  one;  but  I  a 
widow  could  never  hope  to  have  one  to  heir  the  great 
Carew  estate.  The  temptation  was  too  overpowering! 
I  yielded.  When  Agatha  came  back  we  matured  be- 
tween us  our  plan  for  exchanging  the  children.  And 
that  morning  the  news  was  spread  through  the  household 
that  Mrs.  Percie  had  a  fine  girl,  and  I  a  puny,  delicate  lit- 
tle boy.  And  the  wiseacres  of  the  kitchen  shook  their 
heads  and  said: 

"  'No  wonder,  poor  soul!  Losing  her  husband  the 
sudden  way  she  did,  and  fretting  and  pining  after  him,  as 
she  must  have  done,  injured  the  child,  and  so  no  wonder 
he  came  into  the  world  such  a  poor  little  puny  boy.' 

"Later  in  the  morning  the  doctor  came.  But  he  could 
do  no  good  to  Dora  Percie.  She  passed  away  that  after- 
noon. The  doctor  visited  me  and  looked  at  both  the 
children,  and  asked  me  if  I  thought  I  should  be  able  to 
take  charge  of  both  infants  until  a  wet-nurse  could  be 
procured  for  Mrs.  Percie's  little  girl. 

"I  was  so  pleased  to  hear  him  say  Mrs.  Percie's  little 
girl,  so  naturally,  that  I  promptly  declared  myself  to  be 
quite  equal  to  the  care  of  both  children.  v 

"It  seems  that  Dr.  Mix  had  been  warned  that  I  knew 
nothing  of  the  household  tragedy.  So  he  never  hinted 
it  to  me. 


CHAPTER  X. 


A  £  T  E  R    THE  MURDER. 

"It  transpired  that  Reginald  Percie  had  really  not  left 
the  neighborhood  of  Raven  Rocks,  when  he  affected  to 
go  to  Richmond. 

"He  had  said  that  he  intended  to  start  for  Richmond, 
and  so  had  deceived  his  wife  into  the  belief  that  he  was 
going  there. 

"And  at  Eyrie  he  had  actually  taken  his  seat  inside  the 
Richmond  coach  and  started  as  for  that  city,  and  so  had 
convinced  his  servant  that  he  had  really  gone  there. 

"But,  in  fact,  he  went  no  farther  than  a  little  post  town 
called  Fir  Top,  where  he  got  out  of  the  coach  and  walked 
off  to  a  farm,  where  he  happened  to  have  a  race  horse  in 
training. 

"Here  he  hired  a  good  nag,  and  under  cover  of  the 
dark  night,  rode  back  to  Raven  Rocks. 

"He  left  his  horse  at  the  stable  of  his  land-steward,  at 
the  base  of  the  mountain,  and  went  on  foot  to  the  park, 
where  he  walked  and  watched  around  the  house  until 
after  midnight,  when  he  returned  to  the  land-steward's 
house  and  astonished  Mr.  Bullock  by  asking  for  a  bed 
there  for  the  night,  and  saying,  in  explanation,  that  he 
had  been  watching  for  a  poacher  whom  he  wished  to 
identify. 

"The  bed  was  promptly  got  ready  for  'the  squire/  and 
he  retired.  He  breakfasted  with  the  steward's  family, 
warned  them  to  say  nothing  to  any  one  of  his  being 
there,  and  walked  out  into  the  wooded  part  of  the  park, 
where,  under  cover,  he  watched  all  day  the  approaches  to 
the  house. 

"At  nightfall  he  hastened  back  to  the  steward's  house, 
took  a  slight  meal,  told  Mr.  Bullock  that  he  meant  to 
watch  again  that  night,  and  then  hurried  forth  to  the 
park. 

"He  watched  and  waited  there  through  the  tedious 
hours  of  that  cold  winter  evening  until  after  ten  o'clock, 


After  the  Murder. 


when  he  gave  up  the  vigil,  for  that  time,  and  turned  his 
weary  steps  once  more  toward  the  steward's  house. 

"It  was  when  he  was  taking  a  short  cut  through  the 
loneliest  part  of  the  park,  in  this  dead  hour  of  the  night, 
that  he  suddenly  came  upon  the  unhappy  pair  standing 
under  the  deeper  shadows  of  the  group  of  cedar  trees. 
He  took  no  time  to  ascertain  how  accidental  was  their 
meeting  how  blameless  their  conversation,  but  in  his 
jealous  and  insane  fury  he  shot  down  his  fancied  rival  as 
has  been  described,  and  then  set  out  for  the  town  of 
Wendover,  which  was  the  county  seat,  where  the  court 
was  at  that  time  sitting.  He  arrived  shortly  after  sun- 
rise, went  to  a  magistrate's  office,  stated  he  had  slain 
the  lover  of  his  wife,  and  gave  himself  up  to  answer  for 
the  deed. 

"The  coroner  arrived  at  Raven  Rocks  that  afternoon, 
viewed  the  dead  body  of  Arthur  Pentliore,  empaneled  a 
jury,  and  proceeded  to  hold  the  inquest 

"Reginald  Percie  was  brought  from  Wendover  in 
charge  of  two  sheriff's  officers,  and  confronted  with  the 
dead  body. 

"He  had  not  learned  of  the  death  of  his  wife,  and 
therefore  he  was  calmer  than  he  otherwise  could  have 
been 

"The  coroner  found  unexpected  witnesses  in  the 
crowd,  and  was  proceeding  to  take  their  testimony,  when 
Colonel  Percie  stepped  up  to  the  table,  and  said: 

"  'Let  this  cease.  I  killed  the  caitiff  because  he  de- 
served death  at  my  hands.  If  I  had  not  killed  him  last 
night,  I  should  have  killed  him  this  morning,  or  the  first 
time  hereafter  that  I  should  find  him.  I  do  not  regret 
the  deed.  And  I  am  prepared  to  take  the  consequences/ 

"Having  said  this,  he  returned  to  his  seat  between  the 
•two  sheriff's  officers. 

"After  this,  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  bring 
in  a  verdict  in  accordance  with  the  prisoner's  confession. 

"This  was  done,  and  Reginald  Percie  was  regularly 
committed  tc  prison  on  the  charge  of  the  willful  murder 
of  Arthur  Pentliore. 

"Before  he  was  taken  away  from  the  house,  however, 
he  was  led  into  another  room,  where  the  family  physician 

r 


After  the  Murder.  117 


was  waiting  for  him,  and  Dr.  Mix  gravely  informed  him 
of  the  death  of  his  wife. 

"Reginald  Percie  was  brought  to  his  senses  as  by  the 
flash  and  shock  of  a  thunderbolt. 

"At  first  he  could  not  believe  it. 

"What!  She,  young  and  strong  and  firm  and  full  of 
bright,  defiant  life!  She  to  die  so  suddenly!  He  would 
not  believe  it. 

"But  when  the  truth,  with  all  its  ghastly  details,  was 
forced  upon  his  mind,  to  perfect  conviction;  when  he 
learned  that  she  had  kept  the  house,  and  had  no  visitor 
during  his  absence,  until  that  fatal  night,  when  she  was 
called  out  to  attend  the  deathbed  of  a  favorite  servant, 
and  that  she  was  on  her  return  from  that  mission  of 
mercy  when  she  met  Arthur  Pentliore,  who  had  been  to 
the  house  openly,  to  take  leave  of  the  family,  and  that 
the  meeting  in  the  park  had  been  purely  accidental  on 
both  sides,  even  as  the  victims  had  declared  it  to  have 
been — then  for  the  first  time  Reginald  Percie  felt  himself 
to  be  a  murderer. 

"And  when  he  learned  further  that  his  innocent  wife 
had  been  stricken  down  to  madness  and  death,  by  the 
same  blow  that  killed  her  cousin;  that  though  she  recov- 
ered from  her  deathly  swoon,  she  never  recovered  her 
reason,  but  died  after  giving  birth  to  a  little  girl,  his  hor- 
ror, anguish  and  despair  were  boundless. 

"He  demanded  to  see  the  remains  of  his  wife.  And 
when  he  was  taken  to  her  chamber,  where  the  beautiful 
statue-like  body  of  Dora  Percie  lay,  he  fell  upon  it  in 
such  a  paroxysm  of  agony,  uttering  such  groans  and 
cries  of  anguish  as  not  all  the  tortures  of  the  Inquisition 
would  have  been  able  to  wring  from  his  pride. 

"When  the  storm  of  his  passionate  despair  had  in  some 
measure  subsided,  he  asked  to  see  his  child. 

"Wrord  was  brought  me  in  my  sickroom — I  had  been 
informed  of  the  terrible  fact — to  send  the  little  girl  to  be 
seen  by  her  father  before  he  should  go  to  prison. 

"I  took  the  child  from  my  bosom,  put  her  in  the  arms 
of  Agatha,  and  sent  her  downstairs. 

"I  was  afterward  told  that  Reginald  Percie  took  the 
diilds  in  his  arms,  wept  over  her  in  an  agony  of  sorrow, 
and  exclaimed: 


I  t 8  After  the  Murder. 


"  'If  I  could  ever  again  rejoice  at  anything,  I  should 
rejoice  that  you  are  a  girl,  my  child — that  no  boy  of 
mine  will  ever  carry  down  to  posterity  my  blighted 
name!  You  are  a  girl,  and  in  the  future  some  just  man 
may  love  you  for  yourself  alone,  and  well  enough  to 
overlook  the  family  dishonor,  for  which  you  are  not  in 
any  way  to  blame,  and  to  marry  you,  and  so  change  your 
blighted  name.  And  your  family  woes  will  be  forgotten. 
So  may  it  be!' 

"And  so  saying,  without  a  blessing  or  a  kiss,  as  if  he 
felt  indeed  that  his  blessing  would  be  a  ban,  and  his  kiss 
a  contamination,  he  placed  the  child  in  the  nurse's  arms, 
and  with  a  look  of  unutterable  anguish,  he  turned  away 
and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"A  few  minutes  later  Reginald  Percie  was  seated  in 
his  own  carriage,  attended  by  two  sheriff's  officers,  and 
on  his  way  to  the  Wendover  jail. 

"When  Agatha  brought  the  child  back  to  me,  and  re- 
ported the  words  of  the  supposed  father,  I  not  only  felt 
consoled,  but  justified  in  my  action  of  changing  the  chil- 
dren. 

"  'You  see,  nurse,  you  and  I  have  done  no  harm,  but 
good  in  this  affair,'  I  said. 

"  'Yes,  mistess,'  assented  the  woman,  readily,  'I  see 
dat  soon's  ebber  Marse  Reginald  say  how  he  so  glad  she 
gal,  'cause  some  o'  dese  days  she  marry  and  change  her 
name.' 

"  'Yes/  I  continued,  'my  action  was  not  only  justifia- 
ble 'but  meritorious.  Both  children  will  be  benefited  by 
the  exchange.  For  my  little  girl,  as  a  Carew,  could  have 
inherited  no  portion  of  her  father's  great  estates,  which 
are  strictly  entailed  upon  the  male  line.  But  as  a  Percie 
she  will  inherit  the  vast  wealth  of  the  Percies  and  Fair- 
faxes, which  is  not  entailed.  So  in  making  her  a  Percie 
I  have  made  her  fortune  and  pleased  the  father,  too.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  little  boy,  as  Percie,  would  have 
inherited  with  his  parents'  vast  wealth  a  tainted  name 
that  he  could  not  have  got  rid  of  by  marriage,  but,  on 
the  contrary,  must  have  imposed  upon  any  young  lady 
who  might  have  consented  to  be  his  wife.  But,  as  a 
Carew,  he  will  inherit  the  great  Carew  etstates,  with  an 
honorable,  untarnished  name.   So  in  making  him  a 


After  the  Murder.  119 


Carew  I  have  conferred  an  incalculable  benefit  upon  him, 
and  secured  my  own  prosperity  as  well/ 

"Agatha  listened  to  all  this  as  to  an  oracle.  She  was 
very  profoundly  impressed  with  a  sense  of  my  wisdom. 

"And  I  knew  not  what  sort  of  moral  blindness  came 
upon  me  then;  but  I,  also,  felt  extremely  wTell  satisfied 
with  myself.  That  which  at  first  had  seemed  an  impulsive 
act  of  selfishness,  now  appeared  to  be  a  deed  of  the  great- 
est prudence  and  benevolence. 

"So  that  night,  being  at  peace  with  myself  and  all 
mankind,  I  slept  the  sleep  of  the  righteous. 

"I  will  not  linger  over  the  dreadful  scenes  that  ensued. 
Reginald  Percie  was  smitten  with  inexpressible  remorse 
and  despair.  He  would  take  no  steps  to  defend  himself, 
but  his  friends  put  forth  every  possible  exertion  to  save 
him  from  conviction.  Their  efforts  were  in  vain.  The 
jury  brought  in  a  verdict  of  murder  in  the  first  degree, 
and  he  was  sentenced  to  be  hanged.  Then  his  friends 
petitioned  for  his  pardon,  and  as  it  was  evident  that  he 
would  not  live  to  the  day  set  for  his  execution,  the  gov- 
ernor of  the  State  granted  the  pardon,  and  the  dying 
man  was  brought  home  to  Raven  Rocks. 

"Reginald  Percie  was  sinking  under  no  special  disease, 
but  by  a  general  failure  of  the  vital  powers.  He  spoke 
but  little,  only  murmuring  from  time  to  time : 

"  T  fulfill  the  law!    I  give  "a  life  for  a  life!" ' 

"It  was  on  Friday  evening,  just  seven  weeks  from  the 
fatal  night  of  the  homicide,  when,  in  the  strong  words  of 
the  common  people,  he  'changed  for  death.'  He  knew 
me  no  longer.  He  talked  to  Dora,  to  Arthur,  to  his 
aunt,  and  to  his  mother,  as  if  they  stood  beside  him. 

"His  last  words  were: 

"  T  give  "a  life  for  a  life!"— Arthur!— It  is  not  hard! 
— I  come,  Dora! — Mother,  I  come!" 

"And  so  he  passed  peacefully  away. 

"  'Ah,  how  much  we  had  ail  to  be  thankful  for  in  this 
quiet  departure,  so  different  from  the  awful  doom  that 
had  been  pronounced  against  him! 

"And  this  I  will  say  for  the  fierce,  passionate,  hot- 
blooded  man :  that,  if  ever  the  deepest  repentance  won 
pardon,  then  Reginald  Percie  was  forgiven  for  the  crime 


120  After  the  Murder. 


that  I  firmly  believe  to  have  been  committed  under  the  in- 
fluence of  temporary  insanity. 

"Four  days  later  we  laid  the  remains  of  Reginald  Per- 
cie  beside  those  of  his  young  wife. 

"Aftei  the  funeral  I  prepared  to  leave  Raven  Rocks,  of 
which  I  had  become  thoroughly  sick. 

"But  then  I  had  to  part  with  my  lovely  little  dark-eyed 
girl,  who,  by  the  will  of  her  supposed  father,  was  destined 
to  be  brought  up  in  a  neighboring  State,  that  she  might 
not  hear  of  her  family  tragedy. 

"Cassy,  who  was  nursing  a  young  child  of  her  own  at 
that  time,  took  charge  of  the  babe,  and,  under  the  imme- 
diate supervision  of  Mr.  Locke,  conveyed  it  to  his  house 
in  Washington  City,  there  to  abide  until  proper  country 
lodgings  could  be  found  for  her. 

"I  wept  long  and  bitterly  at  parting  with  my  child; 
but  comforted  myself  with  the  reflection  that  I  had  se- 
cured for  her  a  magnificent  fortune,  which  she  could 
never  have  obtained  except  through  this  separation,  and 
by  the  substitution  of  a  boy  in  her  place  had  secured  to 
him  and  myself  a  great  estate,  that  I  at  least  could  not 
have  continued  to  enjoy  without  a  supposed  male  heir. 

"I  went  back  to  Richmond  and  took  up  my  residence  in 
the  handsome  town  house  that  my  late  husband  had  pur- 
chased and  furnished  for  my  use,  and  that  I  now  had  the 
satisfaction  of  believing  would  be  my  own  for  the  term 
of  my  natural  life. 

"Here,  after  all  the  bustle  of  the  removal  was  over  and 
we  had  settled  down  comfortably  in  our  own  home,  an 
alarming  piece  of  news  awaited  me. 

"Agatha  came  to  me  one  day  and  said : 

"  'Mistess,  I  don't  want  to  scare  you,  but  I  got  a 
mighty  bad  piece  of  news  to  tell  you/ 

"  Tor  Heaven's  sake,  Agatha,  what  is  it?'  I  exclaimed, 
frightened  and  conscience-stricken. 

"  'Now,  honey,  don't  be  scared,  don't.  I  said  how  I 
didn't  want  to  scare  you,  fust  fing.' 

"  'Is  it  anything  about  the  exchange  of  the  children  ?' 
I  inquired,  dropping  my  voice  to  a  low  whisper  and  trem- 
bling in  every  nerve  of  my  body. 

"  'Well,  yes,  honey,  it's  'bout  de  chillun.  It's  all  found 
out  by  somebody  'sides  we/  she  muttered. 


After  the  Murder. 


121 


"Who  knows  it?'  I  gasped. 
"  Tendragon.' 

"I  heaved  a  deep  sigh  of  relief.  For  if  there  was  one 
human  being  in  the  world  upon  whose  love,  loyalty  and 
devotion  I  could  entirely  depend,  Pendragon  was  that  one. 

"He  had  tended  me  from  my  babyhood  up  to  the  pres- 
ent hour.  He  had  been  my  'horse/  drawing  my  little  car- 
riage in  my  infancy,  my  groom,  attending  me  in  all  my 
rides  in  my  childhood,  and  my  own  especial  manservant 
in  girlhood  and  womanhood.  He  had  followed  me  to  my 
new  home  when  I  married,  and  had  attended  my  husband 
and  myself  when  we  crossed  the  ocean.  He  was  very 
proud  of  his  old  master's  family,  and  it  was  his  favorite 
boast  that  he  was  'none  o'  your  Crew  niggers ;  he  was  one 
o'  de  Shooberry  cullud  people.' 

"Such  was  Pendragon's  record. 

"For  the  rest,  his  love  of  me  was  his  only  religion ;  his 
duty  to  me  his  only  law ;  and  I  his  only  object  of  worship. 

"That  was  the  reason  why  I  felt  so  relieved  when  I 
heard  that  he  was  the  custodian  of  my  secret. 

"But  in  another  moment  I  relapsed  into  anxiety. 

"I  asked  myself,  how  did  Pendragon  find  out  my  se- 
cret? And  might  not  others  have  discovered  it  as  he  did? 

"I  was  about  to  put  these  questions  to  Agatha,  when  an 
instant's  reflection  convinced  me  that  it  would  be  better  to 
see  and  question  the  man  himself. 

"  'Go,  Agatha,  and  send  Pendragon  up  to  me  imme- 
diately,' I  said. 

"The  woman  went  downstairs  to  do  her  errand. 

"And  in  a  few  minutes  Pendragon  presented  himself. 

"As  the  black  colossus  stood  before  me,  with  his  head 
bowed  in  an  attitude  of  utter  self-consecration,  I  felt  how 
faithful  he  was,  how  ready  to  lay  down  his  life  for  me,  if 
necessary. 

"And,  moreover,  I  knew  that  whatever  I  had  done,  or 
might  do,  would  seem  altogether  right  and  proper  in  his 
eyes. 

"His  queen  could  do  no  wrong. 

"  Tendragon,  I  hear  that  you  have  discovered  my  se- 
cret/ I  said,  fixinsr  my  eyes  upon  him. 

"  'Axdently,  mist'ess,  axdently ;  no  ways  but  so ;  and 


122  After  the  Murder. 


would  cut  de  tongue  outen  my  head  'fore  ever  I'd  tell  it,' 
he  answered,  with  respectful  earnestness. 

"  'I  am  sure  of  that ;  but  now  tell  me  how  you  found  it 
out,  Pendragon?' 

"  'Well,  mist'ess,  I  was  makin'  of  a  fire  in  your  sittin'- 
room  nex'  to  your  bedroom,  and  de  door  was  open  'tween 
de  two.  I  come  in  so  easy  o'  purpose  to  keep  from  'sturb- 
in'  you,  so  you,  nor  likewise  'Gathy,  couldn't  hear  me.  And 
I  lay  down  de  logs  on  de  fire  soft  as  I  was  stealin'  eggs 
from  unnerneaf  of  a  settin'  hen.  And  den  I  hear  you  and 
'Gathy  talkin'  'bout  changin'  of  de  chillun.  And  I  says 
to  myse'f,  how  ef  my  mist'ess  did  it,  it  was  right,  and  dat 
was  all  about  it,  and  I'd  nebber  tell,  no,  not  ef  dey  laid 
me  on  hot  coals  to  make  me  do  it.  And  I'd  bite  my 
tongue  off  first,'  added  the  giant,  with  emphasis. 

"  'I  am  sure  you  would.  But  you  will  not  be  put 
through  any  such  frightful  ordeal,  my  good  friend,  even 
if  any  one  else  overheard  the  conversation  besides  your- 
self ;  but  I  hope  no  one  else  did.' 

"  'No,  mist'ess,  dey  couldn't,  'cause  dere  was  nobody  in 
de  room  'cept  'twas  me ;  and  de  door  leadin'  to  de  passage 
was  shet  and  was  a  good  way  from  de  open  door  onto 
your  room  besides.' 

"  'And  there  was  no  one  in  my  room  except  Agatha  and 
myself.   So  I  suppose  the  secret  is  safe.' 

"  'I  suppose  it  is,  mist'ess ;  but  if  you  s'pects  it  ain't, 
and  s'pects  any  partickler  person  knows  it,  as  oughtn't  to 
know  it,  tell  me  who  it  is  and  I'll  make  it  safe,'  said  the 
colossus. 

"I  shuddered!  I  often  shuddered  at  the  blind  devo- 
tion of  my  slave,  which  made  him  as  ready  to  murder  as 
to  die  for  my  sake. 

"  'There  is  no  one,  Pendragon,  who  could  possibly,  un- 
der the  circumstances,  have  discovered  my  secret.  I  know 
that  it  is  safe.' 

"  'Yes,  mist'ess,  and  if  ebber  it  shouldn't  be,  jes  let  me 
know  and  I'll  make  it  safe/  he  repeated. 

"It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say  that  in  after  life  I 
proved  the  fidelity  of  Pendragon  to  be  far  more  enduring- 
than  that  of  Agatha.   Agatha's  devotion  to  me  had  condi 
tions  and  limits.   Pendragon's  was  unconditional  (and  un- 
limited.  There  lay  the  difference. 


After  the  Murder.  125 


"I  have  now  given  you  the  full  history  of  your  ex- 
change as  children,  with  all  the  circumstances  that  led  to 
the  act,  and  all  the  temptations  that  prompted  it. 

"What  followed  you  both  know,  either  from  hearsay  or 
from  personal  experience. 

"As  the  years  rolled  on,  I  congratulated  myself  more 
and  more  on  the  fortunate  exchange  that  I  had  made,  and 
I  felt  more  and  more  secure  in  my  position  until  three 
years  ago,  when  I  was  rudely  startled  out  of  my  fancied 
security. 

"It  was  winter,  and  in  the  height  of  the  Richmond  sea- 
son, when  I  was  living  in  my  town  house,  in  a  whirl  of 
fashionable  pleasure. 

"If  I  remember  aright,  I  was  dressing  to  go  out  to  a 
dinner  party,  when  a  letter  was  brought  me  bearing  the 
Eyrie  postmark  and  superscribed  in  the  most  abominable 
handwriting  I  ever  saw. 

"I  opened  it  with  a  feeling  of  simple  curiosity,  and 
without  any  premonition  of  the  shock  it  would  give  me. 

"The  letter  was  from  my  faithful  slave  Pendragon. 

"And  it  gave  the  alarming  information  that  old  Agatha 
had  been  converted  at  a  camp-meeting  and  was  suffering, 
under  a  severe  visitation  of  conscience,  for  the  part  she 
had  taken  in  the  exchange  of  the  children.  In  a  word, 
she  meant  to  make  a  full  confession  of  what  she  called  'the 
fraud,'  and  it  was  only  at  Pendragon's  earnest  solicitation 
that  she  consented  to  defer  that  confession  for  three  days 
until  she  could  see  me. 

"I  do  not  think  that  you  can  even  imagine  the  effect 
this  letter  had  on  me.  Exposure  and  ruin  after  all  these 
years  of  prosperity  and  triumph !  There  was  madness  in 
the  thought.  And  I  was  prepared  to  use  any  sort  of 
means  that  might  be  necessary  to  save  myself.  There  was 
no  time  to  write.  I  must  hurry  down  to  Raven  Rocks  and 
see  the  maniac  at  once  before  she  could  have  an  oppor- 
tunity of  plucking  down  ruin  upon  my  head." 

Here  followed  an  account  of  Kate  Carew's  memorable 
visit  to  Raven  Rocks,  and  of  the  imprisonment  of  old' 
Agatha,  with  Pendragon  as  her  jailer.  She  concluded  this 
portion  of  her  narrative  as  follows : 

"I  said  to  Pendragon :  'You  must  keep  Agatha  closely 


124  Another  Shock. 


confined ;  but  take  as  good  care  of  her  and  treat  her  as 
kindly  as  will  be  consistent  with  her  safe  keeping.' 

"  'Yes,  mist'ess,  I  can  do  dat.  But  ef  she's  to  be  kep' 
perfect  safe,  dere  oughtn't  to  be  nobody  about  de  house 
'cept  'tis  me— nobody  at  all  which  could  ebber  be  a  spy 
on  me,  mist'ess,'  he  explained. 

"I  acknowledged  the  prudence  of  his  proposition,  and 
assured  him  that  he  should  have  the  exclusive  possession 
of  the  house  with  his  prisoner. 

"That  same  afternoon  I  left  Raven  Rocks  for  Eyrie. 
And  that  night  I  took  the  stage  for  Richmond,  taking  old 
Cornwallis  with  me,  and  leaving  Pendragon  in  sole  charge 
of  the  manor-house  and  its  secret  captive. 

"You  will  now  understand  the  mystery  of  Agatha's  dis- 
appearance, and  the  origin  of  the  Raven  Rocks  ghost 
story. 

"But  there  are  other  events  of  more  recent  date,  and  in- 
timately bearing  upon  your  present  and  future  welfare, 
that  I  must  hasten  to  explain. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

ANOTHER  SHOCK. 

"At  the  close  of  the  second  day  after  leaving  Raven 
Rocks,  I  arrived  at  Richmond. 

"I  remained  in  Richmond  only  long  enough  to  pack 
up  my  wardrobe,  and  then  I  went  on  to  Washington  to 
aacept  the  invitation  of  my  Aunt  Shrewsbury,  which  was 
cordially  indorsed  by  her  benefactress,  Miss  'Percie,'  as 
she  was  falsely  called. 

"I  need  not  dwell  upon  my  arrival  in  Washington  and 
first  meeting  with  Musa  Tercie.' 

"It  took  all  the  strength  of  my  will  to  control  the 
emotions  that  almost  overwhelmed  me  on  beholding  in 
her  a  beautiful  counterpart  of  myself,  as  I  had  been  at 
her  age,  and  as  indeed  I  still  remained  with  every  little 
change. 

"My  so-called  son  did  not  join  me  in  Washington,  as  I 
had  invited  him  to  do.  His  studies  confined  him  to  hi$ 
college. 


Another  Shock. 


125 


"But  I  did  not  regret  that  when  I  saw  more  brilliant 
prospects  opening  before  my  daughter. 

"Enough.  To  dwell  further  upon  this  period  would  be 
but  'vain  repetition/ 

"Two  years  later  Musa  refused  a  duke  to  marry  the 
very  man,  of  all  men,  whom  it  was  best  for  her  to  marry. 
And  if  my  ambition  for  my  daughter's  advancement  was 
somewhat  disappointed,  my  conscience  was  at  least 
soothed.  And  I  made  up  my  mind,  upon  the  first  con- 
venient opportunity,  to  enlighten  the  young  couple  as 
to  the  secret  of  their  exchange.  I  said  to  myself  that 
now  all  was  well ;  no  harm  had  been  done ;  no  one  had 
been  wronged. 

"Strangely  enough,  I  never  thought  of  the  heir-at-law, 
who  had  been  diplomated  out  of  the  Raven  Rocks  es- 
tate. I  come  now  to  what  brought  this  heir-at-law  to 
my  mind. 

"You  know  that  a  few  weeks  after  your  marriage,  that 
is  to  say,  about  the  middle  of  February,  the  Washington 
season  closed  for  Lent. 

"I  accepted  an  invitation  from  Clarice  Howard  to  ac- 
company Mrs.  Shrewsbury  on  her  visit  to  The  Shoals. 

"I  came  down  here  with  Mrs.  Shrewsbury  on  the  first 
of  March. 

"We  were  met  at  the  landing  by  Colonel  Carew  and 
Espirita,  who  had  been  asked  to  meet  us  at  The  Shoals. 

"And  as  soon  as  I  saw  him,  I  remembered  and  said  to 
myself : 

"  There  is  the  heir-at-law  of  Raven  Rocks.'  And  my 
slumbering  conscience  was  disturbed,  and  at  the  same 
time  all  my  good  intentions  disarranged. 

"But  this  did  not  last  long.  I  cast  care  to  the  winds, 
as  I  have  always  been  accustomed  to-  do,  and  gave  my- 
self up  to  the  enjoyment  of  my  visit,  and  especially  of  my 
old  worshiper's  attentions. 

"Whenever  my  conscience  tried  to  trouble  me,  I 
soothed  it  by  the  assurance  that  if  ever  a  fair  opportunity 
presented  itself  I  would  certainly  set  all  things  right  be- 
tween the  heir-at-law  and  the  actual  possessors  of  Raven 
Rocks. 

"The  opportunity,  or  I  should  rather  say,  the  neces- 


126  Another  Shock. 


sity,  of  an  explanation  came  much  sooner  than  I  had 
expected  or  desired. 

"On  Thursday  last,  Pendragon  arrived  from  Raven 
Rocks,  and  told  me  of  your  unexpected  advent  there.  I 
knew  then  that  the  day  of  reckoning  had  come.  And  I 
felt  really  glad  and  relieved  that  the  duty  of  explanation 
was  at  last  forced  upon  me.  No  one  can  know  the 
weight  of  a  guilty  secret  but  the  one  who  has  it  to  bear, 
and  who  has  not  the  moral  courage  to  cast  it  off. 

"Colonel  Carew  was  coming  to  ride  with  me  that 
morning.  And  I  resolved  that  as  soon  as  he  should  ar-, 
rive,  I  would  call  him  to  a  private  interview  in  the 
library,  and  there  'make  a  clean  breast  of  it/  by  telling 
him  the  whole  story  of  the  exchange  of  the  children. 

"The  ordeal  that  was  before  me  did  not  even  deprive 
me  of  an  appetite  for  breakfast.  I  knew  I  could  depend 
on  the  devotion  of  my  old  worshiper  to  put  the  fairest 
construction  upon  my  act.  And  as  he  was  the  only  one 
who  had  really  been  wronged,  he  was  also,  of  course, 
the  only  one  of  whom  I  felt  obliged  to  ask  forgiveness. 

"After  breakfast  I  went  upstairs  and  dressed  myself  in 
the  most  becoming  riding  habit  and  hat  that  I  possessed. 
I  took  extra  pains  with  my  toilet,  and  really  think  I 
looked  unusually  well. 

"Then  I  went  downstairs  into  the  drawing-room, 
which  was  unoccupied  by  any  one  else,  and  there  I 
waited  for  my  old  adorer.  He  was  soon  announced  and 
entered  the  room.  After  the  usual  greetings  had  passed 
between  us,  and  I  was  about  to  invite  him  into  the  con- 
fessional, I  was,  to  my  surprise  and  relief,  forestalled  in 
my  intention  by  his  abruptly  saying  that  he  admired  me 
more  than  any  other  living  woman,  and  asked  me  if  I 
would  accept  him  as  a  lifelong  worshiper,  in  the  shape  of 
a  husband. 

"There  was  my  opportunity  ready-made  to  meet  my 
necessity. 

"I  laid  my  hand  in  his,  and  told  him  that  I  would  will- 
ingly, gladly  accept  him  as  my  husband,  but  that,  in 
truth,  I  was  not  worthy  to  become  his  wife. 

"This  piece  of  humility  so  affected  the  old  gentleman, 
that  he  swore  in  terribly  strong  language  that  I  was  a 
perfect  woman,  a  goddess  and  an  angel,  whic}i,  if  any 


Another  Shock,  127 


mam  questioned,  he  was  ready  to  blow  out  that  man's 
idiotic  brains,  and  to  take  the  consequences. 

"I  laid  my  hand  on  his  again  with  a  closer  pressure, 
and  told  him  that  in  my  early  youth,  before  I  was  twenty 
years  old,  I  had  been  subjected  to  an  irresistible  temp- 
tation, and  in  yielding  to  it  I  had  committed  a  great  sin. 

"Then  I  stopped,  for  he  suddenly  turned  pale  as  death 
and  burst  into  a  cold  perspiration.  I  then  went  on  and 
in  a  few,  brief,  hasty  words  I  told  him  the  story  of  the  ex- 
change of  the  children.  He  suddenly  raised  himself  up, 
and  wiped  his  face  and  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief,  and 
said : 

"  'Oh,  is  that  all  ?    Why,  I  thought— thought  by  what 

you  said,  I  thought  '  and  then  he  stopped;  but  he 

looked  relieved  and  radiant. 

"  'That  is  all,'  I  said,  coming  to  his  relief;  'but  is  not 
that  enough?'  I  gloomily  inquired;  for  I  was  disposed  to 
magnify  my  sin,  so  as  to  provoke  him  to  depreciate  it. 

"And  I  do  believe  that  his  will  was  so  good  to  me,  that 
he  would  gladly  have  assured  me  that  I  had  performed  a 
wise  and  good  act  in  the  exchange  of  the  children,  only 
that  he  was,  with  all  his  faults,  too  honest  to  do  that  So 
he  said  to  me : 

"  'Well,  child,  if  you  have  done  evil,  you  certainly  had, 
as  you  say,  an  almost  irresistible  temptation  toward  it, 
and  much  to  palliate  it.  If  ever  there  was  a  cruel  and 
unjust  law,  it  is  that  of  entail,  which  cuts  off  the  daugh- 
ters, the  most  helpless  part  of  a  family,  and  settles  prop- 
erty on  the  sons,  or  failing  them,  on  perhaps  some  distant 
male  heir-at-law.  And  if  I  am  the  only  party  wronged, 
I  forgive  you  freely,  Kate!  If  Heaven  forgives  you  as 
freely  as  I  do,  you  can  pass  the  sponge  over  the  slate, 
child,  and  commence  a  brand  new  account — as  most  sin- 
ners are  too  apt  to  do,  Kate,  as  soon  as  ever  the  old  one 
is  squared.' 

"I  declare  I  was  so  moved  by  the  rough  magnanimity 
of  the  old  man  that  I  caught  his  hand  and  pressed  it  to 
my  lips  with  as  cordial  a  kiss  as  I  ever  bestowed  in  my 
life. 

"  'And  more,  I  tell  you,  Kate,'  he  added,  'while  I  live 
your  children  shall  not  be  disturbed  in  their  possession  of 
Raven  Rocks.    I  am  sorry  I  cannot  control  the  disposi- 


128  Another  Shock. 


tion  of  the  property  after  my  death,  but  as  the  estate  is 
so  absurdly  entailed  upon  the  male  line  I  cannot  do  it. 
So  after  my  death,  the  heir-at-law — whoever  the  thief 
may  happen  to  me,  for  I  am  sure  I  don't  know — will 
come  in  and  take  possession.  And  now  I  want  an  an- 
swer to  my  question.  Will  you  take  me  for  your  hus- 
band, my  dear?'  he  inquired. 

"  'Of  course  I  will,  and  will  try  to  make  you  as  happy 
as  ever  I  can,'  I  answered.    And  so  we  were  engaged. 

"Well,  when  old  Peter  Carew  died,  grand  old  gentle- 
man that  he  was,  I  resolved  that  if  ever  I  did  marry 
again,  I  would  not  marry  an  old  man.  But,  you  see,  in 
all  my  widowed  years  I  have  had  but  two  classes  of 
suitors — impecunious  young  men,  with  whom  I  only 
flirted,  and  wealthy  old  men,  not  at  all  like  my  princely 
first  husband,  and  at  whom  I  laughed.  And  now,  at 
forty-one,  I  am  about  to  marry  another  old  man.  He 
is  sixty-three. 

"However,  I  like  Pirate's  Peak.  No  one  of  the  pro- 
prietors has  ever  appreciated  it  yet  as  I  do.  I  shall 
make  it  a  magnificent  marine  residence,  that  shall  be  the 
envy  of  all  the  wealthy  and  fashionable  world.  It  is 
near  Bay  Beauty,  and  near  the  Shoals,  and  so  I  shall 
live  among  my  own  people. 

"And  I  like  the  Old  Harry,  too,  though  the  world  will 
never  believe  it.  I  really  do  like  the  good-hearted,  hot- 
headed, bad-tempered,  generous,  violent,  overbearing, 
old  fellow. 

"And,  oh,  how  I  shall  enjoy  breaking  him  in  and  train- 
ing him ! 

"We  are  to  be  married  very  soon — sooner  than  Es- 
pirita  is,  because,  as  old  Harry  pathetically  put  it,  we 
have  not  so  much  time  to  spare  as  the  young  folks  have. 
I  requested  him  to  speak  for  himself,  as  I  had  full  thirty 
or  forty  good  years  before  me  yet. 

"Espirita  is  indignant.  I  overheard  her  tell  her  father 
that: 

"Kate  would  certainly  pay  him  off  well,  for  forgetting 
her  mother  so'  soon.  And  that  she  thanked  fortune  she 
should  be  out  on  the  frontier,  far  away  from  the  sound  of 
our  inevitable  squabbles,  and  with  nothing  worse  than 
Indian  warfare  to  disturb  her  peace.   And,  in  conclusion, 


Another  Shock. 


129 


she  warned  him  that  if  he  should  get  badly  worsted  in 
our  rights,  he  must  not  come  to  her  for  safety,  for  she 
would  not  protect  him. 

"Old  Harry  bore  this  scolding  with  wonderful  meek- 
ness for  him.  I  think  that  Espirita  must  have  begun  to 
train  him  herself. 

"Now  a  few  words  of  explanation,  at  the  last.  You 
will  notice  that  in  the  first  part  of  this  manuscript  the 
writing  looks  older  than  in  the  last  part.  In  fact,  it  is 
older.  It  was  written  last  autumn,  when  you  two  were 
first  betrothed,  and  when  I  thought  to  put  you  in  pos- 
session of  the  secret,  and  preferred  to  do  it  in  writing 
rather  than  in  person. 

'The  last  few  pages  were,  of  course,  added  after  the 
arrival  of  Pendragon  and  the  interview  with  Colonel 
Carew. 

"No  one  here,  except  Colonel  Carew,  knows  anvthing 
about  the  exchange  of  the  children,  nor  do  wTe  intend  to 
let  them  know  it  until  we  have  seen  and  consulted  you. 

''I  shall  send  this  off  early  to-morrow  morning  by  Pen- 
dragon,  who  will  leave  in  the  seven  o'clock  boat  for 
Richmond,  and  go  on  immediately  to  Raven  Rocks.  It 
is  late.    Good-night.  Kate  Carew." 

During  the  reading  of  this  communication,  very  little 
had  been  said  between  August  and  Musa. 

Pauses,  mutual  glances  and  sighs,  more  frequently 
than  words,  had  expressed  the  feelings  of  embarrassment 
and  humiliation  with  which  they  received  her  confession. 

Musa,  for  the  first  time,  heard  all  the  particulars  of 
that  dark  domestic  tragedy,  which  had  so  long  and  so  un- 
justly overshadowed  her  own  young  life. 

And  it  was  no  relief  to  her  mind  to  learn  that  it  did  not 
concern  her  own  family  in  the  least,  but  that  it  concerned 
the  family  of  her  husband,  whom  she  loved  more  than 
her  own  life. 

And  it  was  a  shame  and  sorrow  to  know  that  her  own 
mother  had  been  guilty  of  such  a  fraud  as  she  had 
acknowledged. 

Musa  understood  now  from  whom  she  had  inherited 
that  power  of  secretiveness  which  had  tempted  her  to 
conceal  her  own  real  life  from  the  knowledge  of  those 


1 30  Another  Shock. 


who  had  loved  and  trusted  her  so  entirely,  and  whom  she, 
in  return,  should  have  loved  and  trusted  perfectly. 

And  she  bowed  her  head  in  utter  self-abasement. 

August  learned,  for  the  first  time,  that  he  was  not  the 
son  and  heir  of  Peter  and  Kate  Carew,  but  that  he  was 
one  of  the  handsome,  fiery  Percies,  descendants  of  Hot- 
spur, whose  beauty  of  person  and  brilliance  of  intellect 
he  had  inherited,  happily  without  that  excess  of  pride 
and  violence  of  temper,  which,  in  the  case  of  Reginald 
Percie,  had  brought  ruin  upon  their  house. 

Having  finished  the  perusal  of  the  manuscript,  Mr. 
Carew  folded  it  up,  laid  it  upon  the  glowing  fire,  and  held 
it  down  with  the  point  of  the  poker  until  it  was  burned 
to  ashes.  Then,  as  the  white  dust  floated  up  the  chim- 
ney, he  put  the  poker  on  its  stand,  and  said : 

"There!  now  let  us  forget  all  about  that  confession, 
except  where  we  are  forced  to  remember  it." 

"But,  August,  what  shall  we  do?  It  is  all  so  very  mor- 
tifying and  perplexing!  What  can  we  do?"  inquired 
Musa. 

"My  love,  we  'can'  do  our  duty.  We  can  always  do 
that,  under  all  circumstances.  And  now  we  must  do  the 
duty  nearest  to  us,  of  course.  We  must  give  up  Raven 
Rocks.  And,  dear,  we  have  enough  without  it.  We  have 
Crow  Wood  and  Bay  Beauty,  and  the  house  in  Rich- 
mond and  the  one  in  Washington.  We  have  a  plenty 
without  Raven  Rocks,  which  must  'be  restored." 

"But,  oh,  the  embarrassment,  the  perplexity,  and  the 
mortification  attending  all  this!"  said  Musa,  in  distress. 

"My  dear,  there  need  be  none  of  the  annoyance  you 
fear,"  soothingly  replied  August. 

"And  then  our  names!"  she  continued.  "What  an  en- 
tanglement is  there!  You  were  born  a  Percie,  and  fraud- 
ulently brought  up  as  a  Carew,  and  you  married  me,  a 
Carew,  who  had  been  fraudulently  brought  up  as  a  Per- 
cie. And  I  find  out  that  I,  who  thought  myself  by  birth  a 
Percie,  was  really  a  Carew;  and  when  I  thought  myself  a 
Carew  by  marriage,  find  myself  a  Percie!  It  is  confusing 
enough  to  derange  one's  mir.d.  August,  what  can  be  done 
about  our  names  ?  It  would  make  a  terrible  talk  if  now 
you  were  to  resume  the  name  of  Percie.  Yet  I  do  not  see 
what  else  you  can  do,  since  it  is  your  own." 


Another  Shock.  1 3 1 


;£I  shall  never  resume  the  name  of  Percie,  my  love.  My 
unhappy  father,  in  the  midst  of  his  deepest  misery  (as  we 
learn  from  Mrs.  Carew's  narrative),  yet  rejoiced  that  no 
son  of  his  would  ever  carry  down  his  ill-fated  name  to 
posterity.  His  dying*  will  shall  rule  me  in  this  hour.  I 
will  never  resume  his  name,  to  pass  it  on  to  any  son  of 
mine.  I  retain  the  time-honored  name  of  Carew,  which 
was  your  name,  and  by  which  I  have  been  known  all  my 
life.  And  I  will  take  measures  to  have  it  made  legally 
my  own.'7 

"That  will  be  very  wise;  but,  oh!  the  publicity,  Au- 
gust !" 

"There  need  be  little  or  no  publicity.  Much  of  this 
business  can  be  done  quietly.  And  besides,  we  are  'going 
to  Europe,  you  know,  to  be  absent  several  years.  And 
even  if  there  should  be  some  little  question  and  conjecture 
why  I  should  require  an  act  of  legislature  to  make  more 
completely  my  own  the  name  I  was  (always  known  by,  it 
will  all  pass  out  of  the  minds  of  men  before  our  return. 
Come,  now,  dear !  We  have  sat  too  long  over  this  worry- 
ing subject.  Come,  get  your  wraps  and  come  out  with 
me  for  a  walk  before  dinner." 

They  went  down  the  evergreen  avenue  leading  to  the 
porter's  lodge,  and  out  upon  the  highroad.  The  short 
snowfall  that  had  kept  them  indoors  all  the  forenoon  had 
ceased,  and  the  sky  had  cleared. 

As  they  walked  on,  Musa  asked  a  question  that  her 
heart  had  been  aching  to  ask  ever  since  they  had  finished 
reading  Kate  Carew's  confession,  but  which  she  had  re- 
frained from  asking  lest  she  should  appear  too  anxious  to 
trust  her  own  personal  feelings  in  the  way  of  her  hus- 
band's interests.  And  even  now  she  put  the  question  in  its 
most  delicate  and  unexacting  form : 

"How  long  do  you  think  this  business  of  the  estate  will 
delay  our  voyage  to  Europe,  August  ?" 

"Why,  not  an  hour,  love — not  one  hour,  of  course.  Do 
you  think,  dear  Musa,  that  any  'business'  can  be  so  im- 
portant to  me  as  that  of  the  recovery  of  your  child ;  or  any 
interest  so  urgent,  so  pressing,  as  that  of  allaying  the 
anxiety  of  your  heart  ?  Dear  wife,  trust  me  once  for  all, 
when  I  assure  you  that  your  happiness  is  the  first  object 
of  my  life,"  he  earnestly  replied. 


112 


Another  Shock. 


She  burst  into  tears,  and  caught  his  hand  and  pressed  it 
to  her  lips  and  to  her  heart,  as  she  murmured : 

"Oh,  I  am  so  unworthy  of  you !  I  feel  it  more  and 
more  every  day  that  I  spend  in  your  society  and  know  you 
better.  Yours  is  love  without  self-love.  And,  oh !  I  am 
so  unworthy  of  it !  I,  in  whose  nature  even  love  is  al- 
loyed with  selfishness.  I  am  so  unworthy  of  you,  Au- 
gust r 

He  stopped  her  self-accusation  with  a  caress,  and  they 
walked  on  in  silence  until  he  said : 

"Yes,  we  leave  this  to-morrow  morning  for  New  York. 
And  we  sail  on  Wednesday,  as  arranged.  You  are  quite 
prepared,  Musa?" 

"Oh,  yes.  I  finished  all  our  preparations  last  night, 
even  to  the  packing  of  the  little  handbag  and  the  laying 
out  of  our  traveling  suits/'  answered  Musa. 

"That  is  well  We  must  start  very  early.  We  must  not 
risk  losing  a  stagecoach,  a  train,  or  a  boat,  if  we  would 
make  sure  of  our  passage  in  Wednesday's  steamer.  And 
if  the  Darien  makes  her  usual  fast  time,  we  may  get  to 
Liverpool  in  season  to  intercept  the  sailing  ship,  the  Fairy, 
I  think  it  is,  and  take  our  child  off  before  the  ship  lands." 

"Oh!  the  prospect  thrills  me  with  joy,  August !"  said 
Musa. 

They  walked  on  and  made  the  circuit  of  the  wall  sur- 
rounding the  park,  and  then  returned  to  the  house  in  time 
to  dress  for  dinner. 

"Fate  meets  us  in  the  dark!" 

After  dinner  the  husband  and  wife  returned  to  the 
small  crimson  parlor  in  which  they  had  passed  the  morn- 
ing in  reading  Kate  Carew's  confession. 

They  seated  themselves  in  two  crimson-covered  easy- 
chairs  before  the  fine  wood  fire  and  prepared  to  make 
this  last  evening  at  home  a  very  pleasant  one. 

Between  them  stood  a  round  table  covered  with  a  crim- 
son cloth.  Upon  it  stood  a  lighted  astral  lamp,  around 
which  lay  books  and  papers. 

Musa  and  August  sat  talking  over  the  prospects  of  their 
voyage  and  of  the  strong  probability  of  reaching  Liver- 
pool by  the  fast  steamer,  in  advance  of  the  slow  sailing 
ship,  and  of  taking  the  child  before  the  nurse  could  have 


Life  or  Death. 


133 


an  opportunity  of  landing  and  hiding  herself  even  for  an 
hour  in  Liverpool. 

Musa  began  to  look  among  the  books  on  the  center- 
table  for  something  to  read  aloud,  when  her  eyes  and  hand 
at  once  alighted  on  a  packet  of  papers,  and  she  exclaimed : 

"Why,  look  here !  Here  are  the  New  York  papers. 
They  do  not  usually  reach  us  until  Monday  morning. 
How  is  this  ?"  she  inquired,  as  she  began  to  tear  of!  the 
envelopes. 

"Why,  I  suppose  Pendragon,  who  arrived  by  the  Rich- 
mond coach  at  Eyrie  last  night,  had  the  forethought  to 
call  and  get  our  latest  mail  for  us.  And,  now  I  think  of 
it,  I  remember  seeing  him  lay  a  packet  of  newspapers  on 
the  table  just  as  he  handed  me  Mrs.  Carew's  manuscript. 
But  the  contents  of  that  manuscript  actually  drove  all 
thoughts  of  the  other  parcel  out  of  .my  mind,  and  I  really 
should  not  have  thought  of  it  again  if  you  had  not  hap- 
pened to  see  it.   How  many  papers  have  you  there  ?" 

"Three.  Here,  take  these  two.  I  want  to  look  over 
the  Herald,"  said  Musa,  handing  over  a  Tribune  and  a 
Times  to  Mr.  Carew. 

He  opened  the  first-named,  and  began  to  look  over  its 
contents. 

He  was  deep  in  a  political  editorial,  when  a  piercing 
skriek  from  Musa  made  him  start  to  his  feet  and  spring 
toward  her.   He  was  too  late ! 

The  paper  had  dropped  from  her  hands,  and  she  had 
fallen  to  the  floor  in  a  deathlike  swoon. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

LIFE    OR  DEATH. 

In  great  alarm,  August  Carew  caught  up  the  fainting 
form  of  his  wife  from  the  floor  where  she  had  fallen,  and 
laid  her  on  the  'sofa. 

Then  he  seized  a  glass  of  water  that  stood  upon  the 
table  and  dashed  a  little  of  it  over  her  face. 

The  shock  revived  her.  With  a  gasp  and  a  shudder, 
she  recovered  her  breath  and  opened  her  eyes. 

"How  are  you,  dear  love,  and  what  caused  this  swoon  ?" 


134 


Life  or  Death. 


inquired  August,  bending  over  her  and  tenderly  wiping 

the  dampness  from  her  face. 

She  looked  at  him  in  a  dull,  bewildered  way,  and  an- 
swered nothing.  A  few  seconds  passed. 

And  then  she  returned  to  full  consciousness,  only  to  fall 
into  the  wildest  lamentations  and  the  bitterest  self-re- 
proaches, which  filled  the  mind  of  her  husband  with  aston- 
ishment and  anxiety. 

With  all  the  vehemence  of  her  unrestrained,  impas- 
sioned nature,  she  abandoned  herself  to  the  storm  of  sor- 
row that  swept  over  her  soul — writhing,  wringing  her 
i  hands,  twisting  her  white  fingers  in  her  ebon  locks,  and 
uttering  the  deepest  sobs  and  groans. 

Only  from  her  despairing  cries  could  he  gather  at 
length  that  there  had  been  another  disaster  at  sea,  and  that 
the  Fairy  had  gone  down  in  a  gale  with  nearly  all  on 
board. 

At  last,  fearing  for  the  sanity,  and  even  for  the  life  of 
his  beloved  wife,  he  hurried  to  the  medicine  chest  and  pre- 
pared a  dose  of  morphia,  which  he  brought  to  her. 

"Musa,  my  dearest,  take  this.  It  will  calm  you,"  he 
said. 

"Oh,  yes !  yes !  will  it  ?  I  wish  it  would  calm  me  unto 
death !  unto  death !  and  rid  me  of  myself,  my  curse,  and 
rid  you  of  me,  your  living  bane  !"  she  cried,  as  she  grasped 
the  glass  and  eagerly  swallowed  its  contents. 

She  soon  fell  under  the  soothing  influence.  Her  suffo- 
cating sobs  subsided,  her  deep  sighs  ceased.  And  she  be- 
came so  calm  that  her  husband  called  her  women  in  to 
attend  her.  They  came  promptly. 

"Don't  you  be  no  ways  scared  'bout  dis  yer,  Marse 
Gus,"  said  Cassy,  as  soon  as  she  perceived  the  lady's  con- 
dition, and  mistook  its  cause ;  "don't  you  be  'tall  'larmed. 
It's  werry  nateral  in  her  state  o'  health,  Marse  Gus,  which 
I's  seen  her  so  before,"  she  added,  as  with  assistance  of 
the  two  girls  she  raised  the  beloved  mistress  and  conveyed 
her  to  her  apartment,  and  carefully  and  tenderly  put  her 
to  bed,  where  she  soon  fell  into  a  deep  sleep. 

Then  for  the  first  time  August  found  leisure  to  examine 
more  particularly  into  the  causes  of  her  distress. 

Leaving  her  in  the  care  of  her  faithful  nurse,  he  re- 
turned to  the  drawing-room  and  picked  up  the  paper  that 


Life  or  Death. 


135 


had  fallen  from  her  fainting  hands  to  the  floor.  The  first 
column  upon  which  his  eyes  fell  told  him  the  terrible 
truth.  Almost  overcome  by  the  sight,  he  sank  into  the 
nearest  armchair,  as,  with  all  the  eagerness  of  anxiety,  he 
read  the  heading  of  the  fatal  article : 

Another  awful  disaster  at  sea.  Wreck  of  the  bark  Fairy,  with 
two  hundred  souls  on  board.  Full  details  of  the  disaster  as  re- 
ported by  the  survivors  picked  up  in  the  lifeboat  by  the  Mercury. 

Then  followed  voluminous  accounts  of  the  shipwreck  as 
given  by  half-a-dozen  eyewitnesses.  Mr.  Carew  read  the 
whole  of  the  tragic  story  through.  And  then,  headsick 
and  heartsick  with  horror  and  grief,  he  covered  his  eyes 
with  his  hand  and  sat  wondering  how  he  should  ever  be 
able  to  comfort  his  wife  in  her  unparalleled  afflictions, 
when  her  sorrow  must  be  deeply  embittered  by  remorse 
for  the  terrible  consequences  of  her  own  wrong-doing,  in 
the  tragic  fate  o*  the  child  she  had  unnaturally  put  away 
from  her  own  maternal  bosom,  and  thus  exposed  to  the 
very  disaster  and  death  it  had  suffered. 

Thinking  of  these  things,  August  Carew  dreaded  the 
awakening  of  Musa  from  her  opium  sleep.  Of  course, 
now  there  could  be  no  further  question  of  their  journey  to 
New  York  and  their  voyage  to  Europe.  For  she  would  be 
totally  unfit  for  the  journey,  even  supposing  that  there 
was  still  any  object  in  taking  it,  which  there  was  not. 

The  night  passed  drearily,  and  in  the  morning  Cornwal- 
lis  was  sent  to  Eyrie  for  the  doctor. 

August,  bending  over  Musa,  saw  her  lips  move;  and 
bending  lower  to  catch  the  words  she  was  trying  to  form, 
he  heard  her  gasp  as  well  as  she  could  for  the  ague  that 
shook  her  nearly  to  dissolution. 

"August,  dear,  never  mind.  It  is  better  even  for  you 
that  such  an  unhappy  wretch  as  I  am  should  die." 

"Oh,  hush,  Musa  !  hush  !  You  will  not  die,  dear  love ! 
This  is  but  a  common  chill,"  replied  her  husband,  con- 
trolling himself  with  a  great  effort. 

These  were  th  2  last  intelligible  words  that  Musa  spoke 
for  many  days.  The  ague  passed  off,  and  was  succeeded 
by  a  burning  fever  that  soon  mounted  to  her  brain. 

August  C?,vtw  never  left  her  side.    He  wrote  for  his 


Life  or  Death. 


mother  and  Mrs.  Shrewsbury  to  come  to  Raven  Rocks  at 
once,  telling  them  of  Musa's  perilous  state. 

Days  passed.  Saturday  morning  dawned.  It  was  a 
very  anxious  day  on  many  accounts.  The  chief  cause  of 
anxiety  was  that  the  crisis  of  Musa's  terrible  fever  was 
approaching.  The  next  twenty-four  hours  would  decide 
her  fate. 

Saturday  afternoon  her  fever  was  higher  than  it  had 
ever  been.  She  no  longer  tossed  about  or  moaned,  but  lay 
silent  and  motionless  in  the  grasp  of  the  dread  disease. 
Her  head  seemed  burning  up  with  an  inward,  raging  fire. 
The  ice-cloths  placed  upon  it  dried  up  in  a  few  moments. 

August  sat  on  one  side  of  the  bed,  constantly  renewing 
the  applications  and  silently  praying  to  the  Lord  for  help, 
as  only  they  pray  who  see  their  beloved  ones  in  the  grip 
of  death  and  feel  their  own  impotence  to  save. 

Cassy  sat  on  the  other  side,  wretched  because  she  could 
do  nothing,  though  she  would  have  given  her  own  old  life 
for  the  life  shriveling  away  in  that  cruel  inward  fire. 

The  doctor,  whose  headquarters  were  now  at  Raven 
Rocks,  had  gone  to  visit  his  other  patients  and  had  not 
yet  returned. 

The  awful  stillness  of  the  sick-chamber  that  in  a  few 
hours  might  be  the  death-chamber,  was  broken  by  a  low 
rap  at  the  door. 

Mr.  Carew  signed  to  Cassy  to  go  and  see  who  was 
there.  The  woman  obeyed,  and  through  the  partly-opened 
door  a  short,  whispered  conference  was  held. 

Then  Cassy  closed  the  door,  and  came  to  the  side  of  her 
master  and  whispered : 

"Miss  Kate  Crew  and  Madam  Shooberry  have  'rived." 

"Thank  Heaven !  Where  are  they  ?"  inquired  August 
Carew,  in  a  low  tone. 

"Dey's  bofe  down  in  de  parlor,  waitin'  to  come  up  an' 
see  Miss  Musa." 

"Here,  Cassy,  take  my  place  for  a  few  moments,  while 
I  go  down  and  see  them,"  whispered  Mr.  Carew,  as  he 
noiselessly  glided  from  his  seat  and  from  the  room. 

He  hurried  downstairs  and  opened  the  parlor  door. 

There  he  found  the  two  ladies  still  in  their  traveling 
suits,  standing  before  the  fire,  just  off  their  long  journey, 
but  too  much  excited  by  anxiety  to  be  sensible  of  fatigue. 


Life  or  Death. 


«37 


"Oh,  August!  is  it  true?"  inquired  Kate  Carew,  rush- 
ing toward  him. 

"It  is  too  true!"  he  murmured,  in  broken  accents. 

Neither  the  man  nor  the  woman  at  that  moment 
thought  of  the  strange  confession  that  had  recently  been 
written  by  the  one  and  read  by  the  other,  and  which  had 
so  entirely  changed  their  relations  to  each  other. 

Kate  burst  into  tears. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Shrewsbury?  It  was  very  kind 
of  you  to  come,"  said  Mr.  Carew,  gravely  saluting  the 
elder  lady. 

"I  could  do  no  otherwise.  I  would  hasten  to  Musa  in 
her  extremity  as  soon  as  I  would  to  Clarice.  But  I  hope 
the  case  is  not  so  bad  as  it  has  been  represented  to  be," 
said  the  old  lady. 

"It  could  not  be  exaggerated.  I  fear  she  is  sinking," 
said  August,  struggling  to  maintain  an  outward  com- 
posure, while  his  soul  was  on  the  rack. 

Kate  threw  herself  into  an  easy-chair,  sobbing  conr 
vulsively. 

"Let  me  go  to  her  at  once,"  said  Mrs.  Shrewsbury,  be- 
ginning to  draw  off  her  gloves. 

"But  you  are  tired,"  said  Mr.  Carew. 

"And  she  is  in  extremity.    I  will  go  to  her  now. 

There  will  be  time  enough  for  me  to  rest  after  " 

Mrs.  Shrewsbury  paused  for  an  instant,  and  meeting  Mr. 
Carew's  keen,  anxious,  agonized  gaze,  she  added,  vali- 
antly, "after  she  has  got  well." 

While  speaking  she  had  been  hastily  divesting  herself 
of  bonnet,  veil,  furs  and  mantle,  and  she  was  now  ready 
I  to  be  shown  to  Musa's  room. 

"Come,  then,  dear  madam.  I  have  heard  that  you  are 
a  model  nurse,  and  I  shall  be  more  than  grateful  to  you, 
if  you  can  do  anything  for  my  poor  wife,"  said  August, 
as  he  led  the  way  upstairs. 

He  led  his  visitor  into  the  sickroom  and  up  to  the  side 
of  the  bed.    She  bent  over  and  looked  at  the  patient. 

There  Musa  lay,  motionless,  helpless,  unconscious  of 
all  around  her.  They  might  have  let  in  a  glare  of  light — 
she  would  scarcely  have  seen  it.  They  might  have  talked 
loudly  at  her  side — she  would  not  have  heard  them. 

Mrs.  Shrewsbury  took  the  parched  wrist  between  her 


Life  or  Death. 


fingers  and  felt  the  flying  pulse,  whose  fierce,  swift  beats 
could  not  be  counted.  She  laid  her  hand  upon  the  red- 
hot  head  and  snatched  it  away  immediately. 

"Why,"  she  whispered,  earnestly — "why  has  not  her 
hair  been  cut  off?    Get  me  a  pair  of  shears  immediately." 

"Her  beautiful  hair!"  said  August. 

"This  great  shock  of  hair  is  helping  to  kill  her — is  de- 
priving her  of  her  very  last  chance  of  life.  Get  me  a  pair 
of  shears,  Cassy !  I  wonder  the  doctor  did  not  order  all 
this  heavy  hair  cut  off." 

"He  mentioned  it,  but  did  not  press  the  matter." 

"Ah,  he  thought  she  was  going  to  die  anyhow,  I  s'pose, 
and  that  it  did  not  matter.  But  as  for  me,  I  never  give 
any  one  up.  Cassy,  are  you  going  to  bring  me  a  pair  of 
shears?'' 

"Yes,  mist'ess — here  dey  is,"  said  the  old  woman. 

Mrs.  Shrewsbury  went  ruthlessly  to  work  upon  that 
glorious  suit  of  hair.  She  passed  her  hand  under  Musa's 
head  and  shoulders,  and  lifted  about  half  a  bushel  of  it 
on  her  arm,  and  laid  it  up  over  the  pillow,  to  be  cut  with 
more  ease. 

"flow  hot  that  kept  the  back  of  her  head  and  neck! 
Good  gracious !  no  wonder  you  couldn't  break  the  fever !" 

With  these  words  Mrs.  Chief  Justice  proceeded  to  exe- 
cute the  sentence  she  had  passed.  As  she  snipped  away, 
the  beautiful  long  purple-black  tresses  fell  under  her 
shears.  August,  sitting  near,  with  a  large  newspaper 
spread  across  his  knees,  reverently,  tenderly  gathered 
them  up  as  they  fell;  and  when  all  had  been  cut  off,  he 
folded  them  up  in  the  paper,  and  put  them  carefully 
away. 

And  Musa's  beautiful  head  was  smoothed  and  raised 
higher  by  two  or  three  more  pillows,  and  covered  with 
ice. 

And  then,  by  Mrs.  Shrewsbury's  order,  her  hands  and 
feet  were  plunged  into  separate  basins  of  hot  water  ad- 
justed on  the  bed  so  as  to  accommodate  them.  And  the 
ice  10  the  head,  and  the  hot  water  to  the  hands  and  feet 
were  renewed  as  often  as  necessary. 

Then  leaving  Musa  in  a  more  comfortable  condition 
than  she  had  found  her,  Mrs.  Shrewsbury  retired  to 
change  her  traveling  suit  for  a  dressing-gowa  and  to  take 


Life  or  Death. 


139 


a  cup  of  tea.  After  these  refreshments  she  returned  to 
the  sickroom  and  peremptorily  ordered  Mr.  Carew  off 
to  bed. 

At  first  he  absolutely  refused  to  go. 

"'Well,  you  say  that  this  night  will  decide  her  fate. 
Probably  it  will.  And  you  know  now  who  is  the  best 
fitted  to  guard  her  through  the  night;  the  anxious,  trou- 
bled young  man,  worn  out  by  a  week's  watching,  or  the 
self-collected,  experienced  woman  who  comes  fresh  to 
the  duty,  and  who  has  already  given  a  proof  of  her  skill." 

"But  can  we  not  both  stay?  I  will  not  interfere.  I 
will  only  sit  here,"  pleaded  August. 

"No.  If  you  do  not  go  to  bed  immediately,  I  will 
throw  up  the  case,"  said  Mrs.  Chief  Justice,  with  her 
most  supreme  judicial  manner. 

"I  will  go.  Heaven  bless  you,  Aunt  Shrewsbury! 
Words  cannot  thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Carew,  as  he  went 
away. 

He  went  no  farther  than  the  next  room,  where,  with- 
out undressing,  he  threw  himself  upon  the  outside  of  the 
bed.  feeling  sure  that  he  should  keep  awake,  watching 
and  listening  with  the  keenest  vigilance  for  any  sound 
or  summons  from  the  sickroom. 

But  so  great  was  his  bodily  prostration,  that  no  sooner 
was  his  head  down  on  the  pillow  than  his  senses  were 
whirled  away  and  whelmed  in  a  deep  and  dreamless  sleep. 
The  night  waned,  and  he  slept  on.  Morning  dawned, 
and  he  slept  on.  The  household  was  astir,  the  doctors 
came  and  went,  people  walked  to  and  fro  in  the  hall,  out- 
side, and  came  in  and  out  of  his  own  room;  and  the 
*   sleeper  undisturbed,  slept  on. 

The  struggle  between  life  and  death  was  going  on  in 
the  next  chamber,  in  the  frame  of  her  who  was  dear  to 
him  as  his  own  soul,  and  still  the  sleeper,  worn  out  in 
mind  and  body  with  a  week's  watching  and  anxiety,  slept 
on,  in  a  deep  and  dreamless  sleep,  oblivious  of  ?il  the 
past,  unconscious  of  all  that  was  going  on  arounc  aim  in 
the  present. 

At  length  the  late  winter  sun  arose,  and  shining 
brightly  through  the  open  shutters  of  the  uncurtained 
and  neglected  window,  struck  full  upon  his  eyelids  and 
woke  him, 


140 


Life  or  Death. 


He  started  up  with  a  keen  pang  of  remorse. 

"Oh,  cruel!  cruel!"  he  cried,  "for  me  to  sleep  at  all, 
and  more  than  cruel  for  them  to  let  me  sleep  through 
these  last  precious  hours  of  her  dear  life." 

He  hurried  impetuously  out  into  the  hall  toward  his 
wife's  chamber.  He  met  Kate  Carew  coming  out  of  the 
sickroom. 

''How  is  she?  How  is  my  dear  wife?  Oh,  why  did 
you  let  me  sleep  so  long?"  he  demanded,  eagerly,  almost 
breathlessly. 

"Oh,  August!"  cried  Kate  Carew,  throwing  herself 
into  his  arms,  and  bursting  into  tears. 

"She  is  dead!  Musa  is  dead!  Oh,  Heaven!"  cried 
the  young  husband,  reeling  back. 

"No,  August!  no,  darling,  no!"  exclaimed  Kate,  sob- 
bing for  joy — "she  is  better.  Her  fever  is  broken.  She 
is  safe." 

Breathing  a  fervent  thanksgiving,  August  Carew 
passed  into  the  sick-chamber.  The  window  shutters 
were  open,  and  the  windows,  draped  with  their  rich,  old 
crimson  curtains,  admitted  a  subdued  rosy  light  that 
filled  the  room. 

August  went  silently  up  to  the  bedside.  The  crim- 
son bed  curtains  had  been  looped  high  to  admit  fresh  air 
to  the  invalid.  He  stooped  and  looked  upon  her  face. 
She  seemed  to  be  sleeping,  but  ah,  what  a  blessed  change 
had  passed  over  her. 

She  now  lay  quietly  upon  a  smooth  and  orderly  bed, 
covered  with  a  snow-white  counterpane.  Her  head  re- 
posed upon  a  fresh,  dry  pillow.  The  ice-cloths  that  had 
wrapped  it  were  now  replaced  by  a  dainty  lace  cap  that 
softly  framed  in  her  delicate  features.  Her  face  was 
thin  and  white,  indeed,  in  contour  and  color;  but  serene 
and  tender  in  expression.  Her  eyes  were  closed,  and  the 
black  lashes  lay  upon  her  white  cheeks,  forming,  with  the 
arched  and  jetty  eyebrows,  a  lovely  contrast  to  their 
whiteness.  Her  'beautiful  lips  were  softly  shut,  but  rosy 
with  the  dawn  of  renewing  life.  Her  fair,  transparent 
ringers. were  lightly  interlaced  and  lying  upon  her  bosom. 

"Is  she  sleeping?"  whispered  Mr.  Carew,  in  a  scarcely- 
audible  voice,  addressing  Mrs.  Shrewsbury,  who  occu- 
pied the  easy-chair  at  the  head  of  the  bed. 


Life  or  Death.  141 

"No,  oh,  no;  you  can  speak  to  her  if  you  wish,"  replied 
the  old  lady,  in  the  same  tone. 

August  did  not  speak  until  he  stooped  and  pressed  his 
lips  to  the  calm  white  forehead  of  the  seeming  sleeper. 

Musa  opened  her  dark  eyes  and  looked  up  in  gentle 
and  pleased  surprise. 

"August?  You  here,  love?  They  told  me  you  were 
sleeping,  and  I  would  not  let  them  rouse  you,"  she  said, 
slowly  and  faintly,  slipping  her  thin  hand  in  his. 

"Oh,  my  darling,  my  darling!  I  thank  Heaven  that 
you  are  so  much  better!"  answered  August,  pressing  her 
hand  and  stooping  and  kissing  her  pale  red  lips. 

"Yes,  thank  Heaven!  Did  you  sleep  well,  August? 
Are  you  rested,  dear?"  she  next  inquired. 

"I  slept  well.  But  the  sight  of  you,  so  much  better, 
has  refreshed  me  more  than  sleep,"  he  said,  with  another 
gentle  caress. 

Her  next  question  pained  him.  After  a  silence  of  a 
few  moments  she  inquired,  faintly: 

"August,  have  you  heard  an}  further  details  of — the 
wreck?" 

"No,  love;  there  was  nothing  more  to  hear,"  he  an- 
swered, gently  and  gravely. 

"There  were  no — no — no  bodies  recovered?"  she  asked 
in  a  low,  hesitating  voice. 

"No,  dear  love,  none,"  he  replied. 

She  sighed  softly  and  asked  no  more  questions  then. 
August  stood  by  the  bed,  holding  her  hand  until  she 
fainted  off  to  sleep. 

"There,  now,  you  must  go  and  get  some  breakfast,  or 
we  s'hall  have  you  down  sick,"  said  Mrs.  Shrewsbury,  in 
a  low  but  peremptory  tone. 

August  stooped  and  lightly  touched  the  sleeper's  fair 
forehead  with  his  lips,  and  then  he  turned  and  obeyed 
Mrs.  Chief  Justice. 

When  he  entered  the  morning-room,  he  found  Mrs. 
Kate  Carew  presiding  over  a  small  breakfast-table  that 
had  been  set  for  him. 

On  seeing  him,  she  arose,  rang  for  the  coffee  and  came 
to  meet  him. 

"August,  am  I  forgiven?"  she  inquired,  putting  her 
hand  in  his,  and  looking  up  into  his  eyes. 


Life  or  Death. 


"Madam,"  he  answered  gravely  and  sweetly,  "as  soon 
as  I  had  read  your  confession,  I  put  it  in  the  fire,  and  said 
that  we  would  forget  it.  And  now,  I  have  no  room  for 
any  other  sentiment  in  my  heart,  but  gratitude  for  our 
dear  Musa's  safety." 

And  he  raised  the  hand  she  had  given  him  and  pressed 
it  to  his  lips. 

"But,"  she  continued,  hesitatingly,  "will  not  this  affair 
involve  you  in  great  legal  embarrassments  concerning 
your  own  name  and  estates  ?" 

"No,"  he  replied,  gently;  "the  only  person  interested 
in  this  matter  besides  ourselves  is  Colonel  Harold  Ca- 


"He  -'ill  never  move  to  annoy  you,"  interrupted  Mrs. 
Carew. 

"I  presume  not,  from  all  I  have  heard.  But  that  is 
not  the  point.  His  estate  must  be  restored  to  him.  I 
shall  write  and  ask  him  to  come  on  here,  and  meet  Mr. 
Lyttleton  Locke,  whom  I  shall  also  invite  to  Raven 
Rocks,  that  we  may  have  a  settlement  of  this  difficulty. 
We  can  make  all  necessary  arrangements  without  trouble 
or  publicity." 

"But  the  name  you  bear — under  which  you  were 
brought  up — under  which  you  were  married — by  which 
only  you  are  known?"  said  Kate  Carew,  with  an  anxious 
look. 

"I  shall  retain  the  name,  and  take  measures  as  quickly 
and  as  quietly  as  I  can  to  make  it  legally  my  own.  And 
now  let  us  drop  the  subject,"  he  said. 

"Willingly,"  said  Kate  Carew,  as  she  rang  the  bell  to 
have  the  breakfast  service  taken  away,  and  arose  from 
the  table. 

Kate  had  assumed  the  direction  of  domestic  affairs,  so 
as  to  leave  Mrs.  Shrewsbury  at  liberty  to  devote  herself 
exclusively  to  Musa, 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


A    CHANGE    OF  PLANS. 

Mr.  Carew  returned  to  his  young  wife's  chamber.  He 
found  Musa  still  sleeping  lightly. 

Musa  slept  a  great  deal  for  the  next  week.  She  had  to 
make  up  for  about  ten  days  of  raging  fever,  tossing  and 
sleeplessness.  Her  convalescence  was  now  so  rapid  as  to 
i  surprise  her  medical  attendants.  Her  youth  and  strong 
constitution  prevailed  over  all  her  ills  of  mind  and  body. 

The  seventh  day  from  that  on  which  her  fever  left  her 
she  was  able  to  sit  up  in  the  comfortable  easy-chair  so 
long  occupied  in  turn  by  her  nurses.  And  on  the  four- 
teenth day  she  joined  the  family  circle  at  breakfast  and 
took  her  first  ride  out. 

She  was  very  much  changed;  but  in  her  husband's  eyes 
she  seemed  lovelier  than  ever.  Once  she  had  a  rich 
glowing  brunette  complexion,  with  crimson  cheeks  and 
crimson  lips,  and  glorious  dark  eyes  flashing  with  en- 
thusiasm or  melting  with  tenderness — all  shaded  with 
luxuriant  blue-black  ringlets. 

She  had  now  a  thin  face  and  clear  pale  complexion, 
with  just  a  faint  tint  of  color  on  her  lips  and  with  a 
brooding  thoughtfulness  in  her  large  dark  eyes,  as  wist- 
ful as  those  of  her  own  little  lost  Musette.  And  this 
lovely  face  was  shaded  softly  by  the  fine  edge  of  the 
dainty  lace  cap  she  wore  while  her  beautiful  hair  was 
growing. 

Y\  hile  she  treasured  the  memory  of  her  angel  child 
deep  in  her  heart,  she  never  spoke  of  her  loss,  but  tried 
to  be  happy  for  the  sake  of  her  worshiped  husband,  and 
she  succeeded  at  least  in  being  cheerful. 

Mrs.  Shrewsbury  and  Kate  Carew  intended  to  remain 
with  her  at  Raven  Rocks  until  her  full  restoration  to 
health  and  strength.   Both  ladies  were  devoted  to  her. 

But  since  Musa's  recovery,  not  a  word  had  been  said 
in  her  presence  regarding  the  secret  family  history  that 
had  been  made  known  to  her  just  before  her  illness'.  She 
knew  that  Kate  Carew  was  her  mother,  but  did  not  by 


144 


A  Change  of  Plans, 


her  manner  betray  her  knowledge.  She  waited  for  the 
elder  lady  to  open  the  subject.  And  Kate,  on  her  part, 
refrained  from  any  allusion  to  it,  from  a  fear  of  exciting 
Mnsa  and  retarding  the  progress  of  her  convalescence. 

Mr.  Carew  had  written  to  Colonel  Carew  and  to  Mr. 
Lyttleton  Locke,  inviting  them  to  come  to  Raven  Rocks 
early  in  April. 

Musa  improved  every  day,  and  was  able  to  ride  out 
every  morning. 

At  length  one  morning,  near  the  end  of  March,  Kate 
Carew  came  into  Musa's  chamber,  where  she  found  her 
seated  alone,  and  looking  very  pretty  and  fragile,  in  her 
white  merino  dressing-gown  and  lace  cap,  and  proposed 
that  they  should  take  a  drive  in  the  pony  phaeton,  Kate 
to  hold  the  reins.  Musa  acceded  in  the  proposal,  and 
after  they  had  got  into  the  forest  road  Kate  said: 

"I  have  brought  you  out  here  for  a  purpose,  dear 
Musa.  I  wished  to  talk  to  you  alone,  secure  from  inter- 
ruption.  I  have  something  "to  say  to  you,  dear." 

"Say  on.  then.  Kate." 

"We  have  not  once  alluded  to  our  re1  :;oiiship  since 
it  was  made  known  to  you,  Musa/'  said  the  elder  lady, 
gravely. 

"But  I  have  thought  of  it  a  great  deal  ever  since  I 
heard  of  it.  Kate,  dear.*' 

'"And  I  have  thought  of  it  ever  since  it  existed." 

"And  you  know,  Kate.  I  loved  you  from  the  first  time 
I  ever  saw  you.  nearly  three  years  ago." 

"And  I  loved  you.  darling,  from  the  first  time  I  ever 
saw  you,  nearly  twenty-one  years  ago;  although  I  never 
dared  to  see  you  after  the  first  few  weeks  of  your  infant 
life,  and  never  did  see  you  until  you  were  between  eight- 
een and  nineteen  years  of  age.  But,  oh,  how  I  longed 
for  you  in  all  those  years.  Musa,"  said  the  lady,  sighing. 

"Oh,  Kate!  oh,  Kate!  how  much  you  must  have  suf- 
fered!" exclaimed  Musa,  tenderly.  x\nd  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears,  as  she  thought  of  her  own  little  lost  Musette, 
and  of  all  she  had  suffered  in  the  separation  from  her 
child.   "Oh.  Kate,  how  could  you  bear  it?" 

"I  had  to  bear  that,  or  to  bear  worse:  grinding  poverty 
for  us  both,  I  chose  the  lighter  evil  of  the  two.  Yet 
you  can  never  know  how  hard  the  trial  was,"  she  added. 


A  Change  of  Plans.  145 


"Oh,  yes,  I  can,  Kate,  better  than  you  think." 

"You  still  call  me  Kate/'  said  the  lady,  with  a  smile. 

"Yes,  dear.  It  comes  natural,"  said  Musa,  turning 
suddenly  and  kissing  her  beautiful  mother.  "I  hope  it 
doesn't  displease  you,"  she  added,  apologetically. 

"Oh,  not  at  all,"  answered  the  gay  widow,  as  she  re- 
turned the  caress.  "I  rather  like  it — only  it  is  odd.  But 
that  is  not  what  I  brought  you  out  here  to  talk  about.  I 
had  something  else  to  tell  you." 

'Tell  it,  then,  Kate." 

"You  are  aware  that  Colonel  Carew  and  myself  are 
engaged  to  be  married?" 

"Yes;  and  I  wish  you  both  all  manner  of  happiness." 

"You  do  not  dislike  the  idea  of  the  marriage?" 

"Oh,  no,  indeed!  I  like  it,  because  I  think  you  will  be 
happier." 

"Well,  'but  August  does  dislike  it." 

"Has  he  told  you  so?" 

"No;  but  I  can  read  his  thoughts." 

"He  only  objects  on  account  of  the  Old  Harry's  des- 
potic temper.  He  thinks  he  will  tyrannize  over  you," 
said  Musa. 

Here  Kate  broke  into  such  a  sudden  explosion  of 
laughter  that  the  white  filly  started  and  ran  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  before  she  could  be  pulled  up. 

"There!"  exclaimed  Kate,  recovering  her  breath. 
"You  are  no  longer  an  interesting  invalid,  Musa.  You 
cannot  be,  you  know.  You  have  just  uttered  the  richest 
joke  of  the  season.  Old  Harry  tyrannize  over  me!  Any- 
body tyrannize  over  me!  Look,  you  darling!  Among 
the  opprobrious  epithets  flung  at  me  in  my  youth  was 
that  of  'the  handsome  horse-breaker/  I  have  not  lost  the 
cunning  of  my  hand  in  middle  age.  But,  oh,  what  is 
there  in  the  breaking  of  the  most  vicious  brute  that  ever 
kicked  and  trampled  his  rider  to  death  equal  to  the  ex- 
citement of  taming  that  old  lion,  who  has  killed  two 
women  already !  It  will  be  glorious !  It  will  form  all 
the  employment  and  interest  of  my  declining  years!" 

"Oh,  Kate!  to  enter  upon  your  married  life  with  such 
thoughts  as  itiesel"  said  Musa,  gravely. 

Again  the  widow's  ringing  laugh  burst  out  upon  the 
air.  And  again  the  sensitive  white  filly  started;  but  Kate 


t$6  A  Change  of  Plans. 


had  a  firm  aold  upon  the  reins  and  kept  her  from  run- 
ning away. 

"Fiddle-de-dee,  my  dear!  You  and  I  look  at  life  from 
different  points  of  view.  You  and  I,  who  are  so  much 
alike  externally,  have  very  little  in  common  internally. 
You  are  the  true  daughter  of  old  Peter  Carew,  who  used 
to  say  that  love  was  religion,  and  marriage  heaven,  or 
something  akin  to  it.  I'm  a  Shrewsbury;  of  the  earth, 
earthy ;  of  the  world,  worldly ;  of  myself,  selfish. 

"Kate,  I  would  not  allow  any  one  else  to  say  that  of 
you." 

"I  presume  not.  It  is  the  truth  for  all  that.  But  that 
was  not  what  I  brought  you  out  to  talk  about  either.  It 
seems  as  if  I  never  should  get  to  the  point,"  complained 
the  widow,  pettishly,  though  laughing. 

"Try,  Kate,"  suggested  Musa,  dryly. 

"Well,  then,  I  got  a  letter  from  Colonel  Carew  last 
night,  and  he  will  be  at  Raven  Rocks  to-morrow  even- 
ing." 

"I  shall  be  very  glad  to  see  him,"  said  Musa,  cordially. 

"Thanks,  dear.  You  know  I  reaflly  have  no  other 
home  to  invite  him  to,"  said  the  lady,  apologetically. 

"Oh,  Kate !  as  if  this  were  not  as  much  your  home  as 
it  is  mine  or  August's,"  said  Musa,  affectionately. 

"You  are  very  kind  to  say  so,  dear.  And  now  I  am 
really  afraid  I  shall  startle  you ;  but,  as  I  have  no  other 
home  but  this — well,  we  think  of  being  married  here — 
next  Tuesday." 

"So  soon !  That  does  really  startle  me !"  said  Musa, 
in  surprise.    "So  very  soon  !" 

"Yes,  dear,  but  you  see  the  colonel  very  naturally 
complains  that  he  has  not  as  much  time  to  lose  now  as 
he  had  when  he  was  twenty,"  said  the  widow,  archly. 
r  "No,  to  be  sure,"  assented  Musa.  "Now,  Kate,"  she 
added,  smiling,  "I  must  get  well  immediately  and  make 
ready  for  the  wedding,  dear." 

"You  will  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  You  may  get  well 
as  soon  as  you  please — the  sooner  the  better;  but  you 
shall  make  no  fuss  over  our  wedding.  I  prefer  that  it 
shall  be  a  very  quiet  one — so  does  the  colonel.  I  like 
display  on  most  occasions,  but  I  should  not  like  it  on 
this  particular  one.    After  the  wedding  I  intend  to  make 


r 


A  Change  of  Plans.  (47 

Up  for  this  moderation  by  every  conceivable  extrava- 
gance." 

"If  the  colonel  will  permit  you,"  said  Musa,  mis- 
chievously. 

''If  the  colonel  will  permit  me!  That's  a  good  one! 
Why,  Musa,  I  intend  to  atone  for  every  fault  of  my  life 
by  reforming  that  fine  old  family  despot!  I  really  like 
the  Old  Harry  so  much  that  I  shall  quite  enjoy  polish- 
ing him  off.  And  now  here  we  are  'out  of  the  woods/  " 
said  Kate,  as  they  emerged  upon  the  road  that  ran  along 
between  the  foot  of  the  mountain  and  the  edge  of  the 
forest.  "Shall  we  follow  this  road  now,  that  will  take  us 
around  to  the  rear  of  the  park,  or  shall  we  turn  back 
and  go  the  way  we  came  ?" 

"We  will  follow  this  road,"  said  Musa. 

"All  right,"  said  Kate,  and  she  touched  up  the  white 
filly,  and  they  set  off  at  a  spanking  rate  for  the  manor 
house,  where  they  arrived  in  time  for  luncheon. 

"This  drive  through  the  free  air  has  done  you  good, 
Musa.  You  have  more  color  than  when  you  set  out.  1 
feel  better,  too ;  there  is  a  load  off  my  mind/"  said  Kate, 
as  she  drew  up  before  the  door  and  threw  the  reins  to  old 
Ccrnwallis,  who  had  come  to  take  charge  of  the  horse 
and  chaise. 

Kate  stepped  from  her  low  seat  and  handed  Musa  out. 

"You  will  have  to  tell  Mrs.  Shrewsbury.  She  does  not 
like  to  be  surprised  by  the  sudden  arrival  of  a  visitor, 
much  less  by  one  who  is  on  the  point  of  marrying  one  of 
the  ladies  of  the  family,"  said  Musa,  as  they  entered  the 
house  together. 

"Oh,  Aunt  Shrewsbury  knows  all  about  the  colonel's 
expected  visit  and  what  he  is  coming  for.  I  told  her  last 
night.  August  knows  all  about  it,  too.  I  told  him  this 
morning.  He  referred  me  to  you.  And  now  here  we 
are  at  your  chamber  door.  You  must  lie  down  and  take 
some  rest  before  luncheon.  I  will  send  Cassy  to  you," 
said  Kate,  as  she  left  Musa  at  her  room  door. 

Notwithstanding  Kate's  prohibition,  some  prepara- 
tions were  made  to  receive  the  old  bridegroom.  And 
the  next  day,  when  the  hour  of  his  arrival  approached, 
the  carriage  was  sent  to  meet  him  at  the  Raven  Inn, 
Eyrie. 


A  Change  of  Plans. 


Even  Musa,  for  the  first  time  since  her  illness,  an* 
nounced  her  intention  to  sit  up  and  spend  the  evening 
with  the  family  in  the  drawing-room. 

She  put  on  an  evening  dress  of  white  crape,  trimmed 
with  black  ribbons.  This  was  all  the  mourning  she  dared 
to  wear  in  memory  of  her  lost  darling. 

When  Old  Harry  arrived,  he  came  in  like  a  hurricane, 
not  of  wrath  but  of  boisterous  delight.  Mr.  Carew  came 
out  from  the  library  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  hall  to 
welcome  him. 

"How  do  you  do?  How  do  you  do?  So  glad  to  get 
here  at  last !  So  glad  to  hear  from  your  servants  that 
Cousin  Musa  is  better!  Fine  place  this  of  yours! 
Never  saw  it  before  \"  exclaimed  Old  Harry,  impetuously 
shaking  hands  with  his  host  before  the  latter  could  utter 
one  word  of  salutation. 

"Will  you  walk  into  the  drawing-room,  or  would  you 
rather  go  up  to  your  own  room  first?"  hospitably  in- 
quired August. 

"Oh,  my  dear  fellow,  up  to  my  own  room  first !  And 
please  send  my  boy  Sim  with  my  valise  after  me.  I  am 
spattered  all  over  with  mud,  and  shall  not  be  presentable 
to  the  ladies  until  I  have  changed  my  dress,"  exclaimed 
the  old  bridegroom  expectant. 

"Then  I  will  show  you  the  way.  Fellow  me,  if  you 
please,  colonel.   Come,  boy." 

Ha'lf  an  hour  later  the  Old  Harry  came  down,  trans- 
figured into  an  old  dandy,  in  black  swallow-tailed  coat, 
lavender  pants,  lavender  necktie,  lavender  gloves  and 
fine  linen,  with  his  fiery-red  shock  of  hair  and  beard, 
trimmed,  oiled  and  brushed  into  civilization  and  de- 
corum, and — if  you  will  believe  me — a  bunch  of  white 
violets  in  his  buttonhole. 

The  ladies  in  the  drawing-room  arose  to  receive  this 
elegant  apparition,  scarcely  recognizing  it  as  the  Old 
Harry. 

"How  do  you  do,  Cousin  Musa?  So  glad  to  see  you 
looking  so  well  after  your  illness.  Fine  old  place  this  of 
yours,  my  dear.  Good-evening,  Mrs.  Shrewsbury.  By- 
gones are  bygones  between  you  and  me,  eh?  Yes! 
Well,  fine  old  place  this  of  our  young  friends,  eh  ?  How 
are  you,  Cousin  Kate?   You  are  looking  remarkably 


A  Change  of  Plans.  149 


well,  my  beautiful  cousin.  Fine  odd  place  this  ©f  your 
son's  and  daughter's,  eh?  Hope  they,  and  their  chil- 
dren after  them,  will  live  long  to  enjoy  it,  eh  ?"  exclaimed 
the  Old  Harry,  storming  on  without  waiting  for  any  one 
to  answer  a  question  or  an  exclamation. 

"Will  you  take  a  seat,  colonel?"  inquired  Mr.  Carew, 
drawing  a  large  armchair  forward. 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  the  Old  Harry,  as  he  sat  down. 
"Magnificent  old  place  this  of  yours !" 

Every  one  for  whom  these  iterated  praises  were  ut- 
tered knew  well  what  they  meant — that  the  old  man 
wished  to  let  them  know  distinctly  he  had  not  come  to 
take  possession  of  his  property,  and  did  not  mean  at  any 
time,  or  under  any  circumstances,  to  set  up  any  claim 
to  it. 

"I  am  very  gilad  you  like  Raven  Rocks  so  well,  colonel. 
And  I  quite  agree  with  you  in  your  opinion  of  it,"  an- 
swered August  Carew. 

At  this  moment  the  old-fashioned  folding-doors  were 
thrown  open,  and  Pendragon,  in  his  capacity  of  butler, 
announced  supper  in  the  old-time  phrase:  "Madam  is 
served." 

Old  Harry  was  on  his  very  best  behavior.  Not  even  for 
love  would  he  forget  etiquette.  So  he  arose,  bowed  and 
gave  his  arm  to  his  hostess,  to  take  her  in  to  supper.  Mr. 
Carew  followed  with  Mrs.  Shrewsbury.  And  Kate  walked 
on  independently,  unescorted.  Love  had  not  hurt  the  old 
man's  appetite.  He  did  more  than  justice  to  the  good 
things  set  before  him. 

After  supper  the  party  returned  to  the  drawing-room, 
where  they  sat  for  half-an-hour  listening  to  Old  Harry's 
account  of  his  journey. 

And  then,  as  the  young  hostess  was  not  yet  fully  recov- 
ered, and  as  the  traveler  showed  signs  of  fatigue,  Kate 
took  the  responsibility  of  breaking  up  the  party. 

On  the  evening  of  the  next  day  Mr.  Lyttleton  Locke 
arrived  from  Washington  City.  And  on  the  following 
day,  being  Saturday,  the  three  gentlemen — Colonel  Carew, 
Mr.  Carew  and  Mr.  Locke — spent  the  forenoon  in  the  li- 
brary, in  consultation  over  certain  deeds  and  other  docu- 
ments. 

But  when  the  question  of  transferring  the  Raven  Rocks 


150  A  Change  of  Plans. 


estate  to  its  legal  proprietor  came,  Old  Harry  jumped  up 
and  stormed.  He  swore  by  all  the  demons  in  and  out  of 
an  unmentionable  place  that  he  would  never  say,  or  do,  or 
sign,  or  seal  anything  whatever — no,  and  he  wouldn't 
have  anything  served  on  him,  he  wouldn't  accept  anything 
signed  and  sealed  by  any  one  else,  that  went  to  put  old 
Peter  Carew's  daughter  and  son-in-law  off  of  old  Peter 
Carew's  estate!  And  he  called  down  all  unmentionable 
maledictions  on  his  head  and  his  eyes  and  his  life  and  his 
soul,  if  he  did.  And  he  swore  by  multitudinous  fiends  that 
he  considered  the  proposition  an  insult  to  his  integrity. 
And  he  clasped  his  hands  firmly  behind  his  back  lest  some- 
body should  force  some  deed  into  them,  and  put  him  in 
possession  of  Raven  Rocks,  whether  he  would  or  no. 

"But,  my  good  sir,"  said  the  lawyer,  "all  this  is  per- 
fectly gratuitous.  Nothing  need  be  'signed,  sealed  and 
delivered/  as  you  are  pleased  to  call  it,  to  give  you  Raven 
Rocks.   It  is  yours  already,  whether  you  claim  it  or  not." 

"I  will  never  claim  it  so  long  as  I  live !"  said  Old  Harry, 
with  a  terrible  oath. 

"Then,  of  course,  you  can  leave  our  young  friends  in 
possession  as  long  as  you  live,"  acquiesced  the  lawyer. 

"And  who  will  have  the  right  or  the  power  to  take  it 
away  from  them  after  I  am  gone?  That's  what  I  want  to 
know  ?"  bawled  Old  Harry. 

"The  heir-at-law,  whoever  he  may  prove  to  be,"  very 
coolly  replied  the  old  lawyer. 

"Set  fire  to  him,  whoever  he  may  be !"  hotly  exclaimed 
the  Old  Harry.  "But  I  don't  believe  there's  any  such  a 
person.  There!" 

"Pardon  me,  Colonel  Carew,"  said  August,  gravely, 
"but  there  is  such  a  person.  And  the  time  has  now  come 
when  I  must  speak  of  him.    Your  son,  Harold'  " 

"Ah !  the  poor,  self-willed  fellow !"  interrupted  the  old 
man,  with  much  emotion.  "You  are  thinking  of  him,  are 
you  ?  Dead  a  dozen  years  ago,  sir !  Dead  a  dozen  years 
ago,  or  else  he  would  have  answered  some  one  of  the  many 
advertisements  I  had  put  in  the  papers  inviting  him  to 
come  home.  You  may  put  him  out  of  your  calculations, 
sir.  He'll  never  come  back  to  this  world  to  deprive  you 
of  Raven  Rocks.   Dead  a  dozen  years  ago,  sir.   Dead  a 


A  Stranger. 


151 


dozen  years  ago  or  more!"  added  the  bereaved  father, 

with  a  deep  sigh. 

Mr.  Carew  and  Mr.  Locke  were  both  so  touched  by  this 
betrayal  of  feeling  on  the  part  of  Old  Harry  that  they 
kept  silence  for  a  while.  But  the  impetuous  old  man  soon 
recommenced : 

"Ah,  poor  boy !  poor  boy  !  That  temper  of  his  was  his 
ruin,  sir ! — that  self-willed,  headstrong,  violent  and  ungov- 
ernable temper  of  his !  I  can't  think  where  he  got  that 
temper  from,  I'm  sure.  Certainly  not  from  me.  But, 
there !  He  is  dead  and  gone  now,  poor  fellow !  And 
there's  an  end  of  him !"  he  added,  vigorously  wiping  his 
face  with  his  pocket  handkerchief. 

"It  is  true,"  said  August,  solemnly.  "Young  Harold 
Carew  died  years  ago,  before  he  saw  one  of  your  adver- 
tisements inviting  him  to  return  home.  But — he  left  a 
widow  and  a  child.  And  the  future  heir  of  Raven  Rocks 
lives  in  your  grandson,  Colonel  Carew." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

A  STRANGER. 

"I  say  that  the  future  heir  of  Raven  Rocks  survives  in 
your  grandson.  Colonel  Carew,"  repeated  August,  seeing 
that  the  old  man  only  sat  and  stared  stupidly  in  his  face, 
as  if  he  had  not  comprehended  what  had  been  said. 

('Eh?  What!  Lord  bless  my  soul  alive!"  exclaimed 
the  Old  Harry,  breaking  out  of  his  stupor.  "Where  is 
the  boy?  How  did  you  find  this  out?  How  long  have  | 
you  known  it?  Can  you  prove  it?  Why  didn't  you  let 
me  know  before  ?  Gracious  Heaven,  man  !  why  didn't  you 
tell  me  all  this  years  ago?  Where  has  the  boy  been  all 
this  time?  Is  his  mother  living?  What  sort  of  a  woman 
is  she?  Where  do  they  live?  What  are  their  circum- 
stances? Are  they  in  want?  When  can  I  see  the  lad? 
How  old  is  he?  How  has  he  been  brought  up?  Heaven 
and  earth,  man!  why  don't  you  answer?"  fiercelv  de- 
manded Old  Harry,  after  pouring  forth  a  torrent  of  ques- 
tions in  his  usual  impetuous  way,  until  he  had  to  stop  for 
want  of  breath. 


152  A  Stranger. 


"I  will  tell  you  all  that  I  know  at  once,  Colonel  Carew, 
and  I  should  have  done  so  before  if  you  had  given  me  an 
opportunity,"  said  August. 

"Go  on,  sir!  Go  on!  Thunder  and  lightning,  why 
don't  you  go  on !" 

"I  am  going,"  <said  August,  smiling  at  the  old  man's 
vehement  impatience.  "I  discovered  the  existence  of 
your  grandson  but  a  few  weeks  ago,  and  by  the  merest 
accident." 

"Providence,  sir!  Special  Providence,  sir!  Go  on," 
interrupted  Colonel  Carew. 

"Providence,  then.  I  stand  corrected,"  smiled  August, 
"His  mother  is  a  good  woman,  the  wife  now  of  the  Eev. 
Mr.  Wilks,  a  Methodist  preacher." 

"The  jade!  to  marry  a  second  time  and  put  a  step- 
father over  my  grandson !"  exclaimed  Old  Harry,  very 
consistently  with  his  own  matrimonial  proceedings,  past 
and  present. 

"They  live  at  Inwood-on-the-Hudson,  and  are  in  mod- 
erate circumstances,"  continued  Mr.  Carew,  heedless  of 
the  interruption. 

"But  the  boy,  sir!  the  boy!  let  us  hear  about  the  boy! 
Who  the  deuce  cares  about  the  woman  and  the  parson!" 
exclaimed  Old  Harry. 

"The  boy  is  a  healthy,  intelligent  lad,  very  much  like 
the  Carews  in  person  and  in  character;  with  a  strong 
will  of  his  own." 

"Never  was  a  Carew  without  one,  sir!  Never!" 

"He  is  between  ten  and  twelve  years  of  age;  and,  like 
his  father  before  him,  he  has  run  away  to  sea." 

"'Run  away  to  sea!'  Lord  bless  my  soul  alive!  'run 
away  to  sea!'  He,  too!"  burst  forth  Old  Harry,  starting 
from  his  chair,  and  beginning  to  trot  up  and  down  the 
floor,  and  wipe  the  beading  perspiration  from  his  face. 

"I  do  not  think  you  need  to  distress  yourself  on  that 
account,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Carew,  soothingly. 

"In  the  name  of  Heaven,  then,  where,  where,  where  is 
the  lad?  How  can  he  be  reached?"  exclaimed  the  old 
man,  stopping  in  his  vehement  walk  and  standing  before 
the  last  speaker. 

"He  is  probably  safe  and  in  good  hands.  He  is  known 
to  have  sailed  with  Captain  Orr,  of  the  merchant  ship 


A  Stranger.  153 


Banshee,  trading  between  New  York  and  Liverpool 
Captain  Orr  is  known  to  the  boy's  mother  as  a  just  and 
kind  man,  a  friend  of  the  boy's  father,  who  sailed  as 
second  mate  on  the  Banshee  for  several  years.  The 
Banshee  sailed  from  New  York  about  two  months  ago, 
and  is  probably  now7  near  port,  on  her  homeward-bound 
voyage,"  Mr.  Carew  explained. 

Old  Harry  wiped  his  red  and  steaming  face  again  and 
exclaimed: 

"I  must  go  to  New  York  immediately  to  look  up  my 
grandson,  the  heir  of  Pirate's  Peak.  I  will  take  Kate  to 
Xew  York  for  our  wedding  trip,  and  wait  there  until  the 
— the — the  what's-its-name — the  Banshee  comes  in,  and 
then  I'll  take  the  lad  and  fetch  him  home.'"' 

"You'll  go  to  Inwood  and  see  his  mother,  I  suppose?'5 
said  Mr.  Carew. 

''Well,  yes,  I  suppose  I  must,  though  don't  care  about 
the  jade — to  go  and  marry  a  second  time,  and  put  a  step- 
father over  my  grandson!  What  do  you  say  the  fellow's 
name  was  she  went  and  married — Weeks? — Peake? — 
what  was  it?" 

"Wilks — the  Rev.  Mr.  Wilks,  a  Methodist  preacher." 

"I  know  him — a  meddlesome  ourang  outang — tried  to 
make  mischief  between  me  and  Cousin  Kate  before  I 
ever  saw  her  face,  with  ~  cock-and-bull  story,  enough  to 
make  your  hair  stand  on  end.  I  know  him]  Set  fire  to 
him !  No  wonder  the  boy  ran  away  to  sea.  I  would  have 
done  the  same  thing  myself,"  growled  Old  Harry.  "And 
now,  sir,  of  course  you  have  proofs  of  what  you  have 
told  me." 

"Certainly;  I  brought  them  with  me  from  New  York. 
I  will  give  them  to  you  immediately,"  said  Mr.  Carew.  as 
he  arose  and  unlocked  a  drawer  in  the  library  table,  and 
drew  from  it  a  parcel  which  he  handed  to  Colonel  Carew. 

"And  now  let  all  else  go  by  for  the  present.  I  don't 
care  a  copper  cent  what  becomes  of  Raven  Rocks,  but  I 
do  care  for  my  grandson ;  and  I  wTant  to  look  over  these 
documents  alone  at  my  leisure,  and  in  my  own  room.  So 
if  you  will  excuse  me,  gentlemen,  I  will  go." 

Old  Harry  shut  himself  up  in  his  room,  until  he  had 
read  all  the  letters  and  other  documents  relating  to  the 
case  of  his  grandson,  and  had  stared  at  all  the  photo- 


154 


A  Stranger. 


graphs  to  his  eyes'  content,  and  had  satisfied  himself  as 
to  the  genuineness  and  authenticity  of  the  whole  mass  of 
proofs,  and  then  he  came  out  and  went  in  search  of  his 
betrothed.  He  found  her  in  the  sitting-room,  where,  as 
soon  as  he  was  seated,  he  burst  forth  with  the  whole 
truth. 

"I  have  just  found  out  that  I  have  got  a  living  grand- 
son, Kate,  the  son  of  my  poor  willful  Harry  who  ran 
away  to  sea  so  many  years  ago.  He  married  and  died, 
leaving  a  widow  and  one  child,  my  grandson,  who  will  be 
the  heir  of  Pirate's  Peak.  I  thought  it  right  to  tell  you 
so,  Kate,  and  to  tell  you,  also,  that  your  prospects  shall 
not  be  injured  by  the  unexpected  circumstance  of  my 
grandson's  existence.  Pirate's  Peak  is  not  entailed  as 
Raven  Rocks,  unfortunately  is.  So  you  shall  be  richly 
provided  for,  my  love,  and  shall  have  a  life's  interest  in 
Pirate's  Peak  after  my  decease." 

"Don't  talk  about  your  decease,  my  dear  old  lion.  But 
tell  me  about  the  boy.  Where  is  he?"  inquired  the 
widow. 

"On  board  of  a  ship,  expected  evesy  day  to  land  at 
New  York.  And  if  it  is  agreeable  to  you,  my  dear,  in- 
stead of  going  South  for  our  wredding  trip,  we  will  go 
North  and  fetch  home  the  boy.   What  do  you  say?" 

"I  woufd  prefer  going  North  under  any  circumstances 
and  very  much  prefer  it  under  these,"  answered  the  lady. 

"Thank  you,  Kate." 

And  so  the  matter  was  settled. 

The  wedding  was  a  very  quiet  one.  There  was  no  dis- 
play in  dress. 

Kate  was  married  in  a  neat  traveling  suit  of  gray  Irish 
poplin,  trimmed  with  velvet  of  the  same  quiet  shade,  and 
a  bonnet  of  silver-gray  silk,  with  a  gray  ostrich  tip  and  a 
single  tea  rose,  and  white  gloves. 

Mrs.  August  Carew  wore  a  black  silk,  half  covered 
with  a  fine  white  thread-lace  shawl,  a  white  rose  in  her 
dark  hair,  and  white  gloves. 

Mrs.  Shrewsbury  wore  a  black  satin  dress,  black  lace 
shawl,  point-lace  cap  and  lavender  gloves.  Mrs.  Rollins, 
a  friend  from  Eyrie,  wore  ?  mauve  silk  walking  suit,  with 
bonnet  and  gloves  to  match, 


A  Stranger. 


l55 


'  The  'bridegroom  wore  the  regulation  dress  in  such 
cases  made  and  provided. 

After  an  elegant  little  breakfast,  at  which  the  officiating 
clergyman,  his  wife,  and  the  family  solicitor,  were  the 
only  guests,  the  newly-married  pair  bade  adieu  to  their 
friends,  and  entered  the  carriage  that  had  been  ordered 
to  convey  them  to  Eyrie,  to  meet  the  coach  that  was  to 
take  them  the  first  stage  on  their  journey  northward. 

On  the  following  day,  Mrs.  Shrewsbury  left  Raven 
Rocks  for  The  Shoals,  to  attend  her  daughter  Clarice. 
Mr.  Lyttleton  Locke  escorted  the  old  lady  as  far  as 
Washington,  where  she  took  the  steamer  for  the  Chesa- 
peake Bay. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  August  Carew  remained  at  Raven  Rocks 
for  some  weeks  longer,  in  order  to  settle  up  their  business 
there  before  leaving  the  place.  For  August  had  deter- 
mined, notwithstanding  all  Colonel  Carew  had  said  to 
the  contrary,  that  he  would  give  up  Raven  Rocks.  And 
he  therefore  made  arrangements  with  the  land  steward, 
Bullock,  to  receive  all  the  revenues  of  the  estate  and  pay 
them  over  to  Mr.  Lyttleton  Locke,  who  was  to  put  them 
into  bank  to  the  credit  of  Colonel  Harold  Carew,,  of  Pi- 
rate's Peak. 

They  had  in  all  this  time  heard  nothing  more  of  the 
wreck.  The  waters  of  forgetfulness  had  seemed  to*  close 
over  the  tragedy  as  the  waves  of  the  ocean  had  closed 
over  the  sunken  ship. 

Mr.  Carew  had  written  to  the  detective  at  Liverpool, 
recalling  him  and  Mrs.  Wilks  from  their  vain  waiting 
there. 

Musa  received  long  and  frequent  letters  from  Kate. 
The  newly-married  pair  were  in  New  York,  waiting  for 
the  arrival  of  the  Banshee,  which  was  daily  expected. 
From  New  York  they  intended  to  come  down  to  Pirate's 
Peak. 

At  length,  about  the  first  of  May,  all  their  work  at 
Raven  Roclcs  being  done,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carew,  accom- 
panied by  their  servants,  Cornwallis  and  Cassy,  left  for 
Washington  en  route  for  Bay  Beauty. 

The  bright  little  bay,  the  Isle  of  Roses  on  its  bosom, 
the  verdant  banks  around  it,  the  wooded  hill  and  vine- 
clad  villa  at  its  head,  were  all  as  beautiful  as  the  floral 


156  A  Stranger. 


month  of  May  could  make  them.  There  at  Cape  Wel- 
come a  surprise  awaited  them. 

Commodore  Howard,  Mrs.  Shrewsbury,  Colonel  Ca- 
rew  and  Kate  stood  on  the  pier  to  meet  them. 

"This  is  indeed  a  very  unexpected  pleasure,"  said  Au- 
gust, as  he  shook  hands  right  and  left  in  response  to  their 
cordial  greetings. 

"Why,  I  am  surprised  and  delighted  to  meet  you  here, 
Kate — dear  Kate !"  said  Musa,  as  soon  as  she  had  shaken 
hands  with  the  elder  members  of  this  receiving  com- 
mittee. 

"We  have  been  here  three  days,  my  darling,"  answered 
Mrs.  Carew. 

"But  when  I  received  a  letter  from  you  just  before  I 
left  Raven  Rocks,  you  were  still  in  New  York,  awaiting 
the  arrival  of  the  Banshee,  with  little  Sam  on  board. 
She  arrived,  of  course  ?  But  the  boy — did  you  bring  the 
boy  back  with  you?"  inquired  Musa,  as  they  all  walked 
up  the  avenue,  between  rowTs  of  fragrant,  flowering  al- 
mond trees. 

"The  Banshee  came  in  six  days  since,  dear,  but  the  boy 
was  not  on  board  of  her.  It  seems  that  he  had  shipped 
only  for  the  voyage  out,  and  he  left  the  ship  at  Liver- 
pool," said  Kate. 

"The  little  vagabond !"  burst  forth  the  Old  Harry,  "to 
give  me  all  this  trouble !  But  I  have  sent  an  officer  over 
after  him  in  the  steamer  that  sailed  Saturday.  The  little 
outlaw  !  I'll  train  him  once  I  get  hold  of  him !  I'll  learn 
him  how  to  run  away  I" 

"Come  here,  my  dear,  I  have  got  something  to  tell 
you,"  said  Mrs.  Shrewsbury,  drawing  Musa's  arm  within 
her  own,  and  dropping  a  little  behind  the  party,  so  that 
they  could  be  tete-a-tete. 

"And  I  have  got  something  to  ask  you,  dear  Mrs. 
Shrewsbury.   How  is  Clarice?"  whispered  Musa. 

"Oh,  she  is  doing  finely !  And— congratulate  me,  my 
dear.   I  am  a  grandfather." 

"A  grandfather!"  burst  forth  Musa,  in  amazement. 

"Oh,  I  mean  a  grandmother.  But  it  is  a  boy,  a  very 
fine  boy,  indeed.  Just  one  week  old  to-day.  And  that's 
how  I  made  the  slip  of  the  tongue,"  the  old  lady  ex- 
plained, 


A  Stranger.  157 


"I  am  so  glad !  I  do  congratulate  you,  very  sincerely 
indeed.  And  my  dear  Clarice !  She  is  doing  well,  you 
say?" 

"She  is  doing  finely.    And  the  baby  is  a  noble  boy. 
And  she  means  to  name  him  after  you." 
"To  name  him  after  me!" 

"Yes,  my  dear,  for  she  adores  you.  There  is  not  a 
creature  living  who  loves  you  more  devotedly  than  Clar- 
ice does." 

"I  know  she  does,  dear  child.  But — name  a  boy  after 
me!" 

"Yes,  my  dear.  If  it  had  been  a  girl  she  would  have 
called  her  Musa.  But  as  it  is  a  boy  she  will  call  him 
Percy — Percy  Howard.    It  will  be  a  very  pretty  name." 

"Yes,  a  very  pretty  name,"  said  Musa,  with  an  invol- 
untary sigh. 

"And  she  wants  you  and  Mr.  Carew  to  stand  spon- 
sors for  the  boy  when  he  is  christened.  And  she  is  very 
anxious  to  see  you.  I  hope  you  will  go  over  to  see  her 
as  soon  as  possible." 

"I  will  go  over  to-morrow  morning,  dear  Mrs.  Shrews- 
bury." 

"Thank  you,  my  love.  Well,  here  we  are  at  the 
house." 

The  house  looked  very  bright  and  cheerful.  The 
evening  lamps  were  lighted,  though  it  was  quite  early. 
The  doors  and  windows  were  all  open,  and  the  light 
from  within  streamed  out  upon  the  beautiful  piazza. 

Musa  found  her  trunks  and  boxes  already  in  her  room, 
under  the  charge  of  Cassy.  She  changed  her  traveling 
suit  for  an  evening  dress  of  fine  India  muslin,  trimmed 
v/ith  black  ribbon ;  put  a  white  rose  in  her  dark  hair,  and 
went  below  to  join  her  friends. 

After  supper  the  party  adjourned  to  the  piazza,  to  en- 
joy the  lovely  starlight  night  upon  the  waters. 

There  was  a  late  moon,  and  the  visitors  waited  for  it  to 
rise,  that  they  might  have  its  light  upon  the  'bay  as  they 
went  home  in  their  boats.  At  ten  o'clock  the  moon 
arose  over  the  waters,  clear,  serene  and  majestic. 

The  visitors  prepared  for  the  departure,  and,  notwith- 
standing the  urgent  entreaty  of  their  host  and  hostess 


A  Stranger. 


that  they  should  remain  for  the  night,  they  pleaded  ne- 
cessity and  left  the  house. 

Early  the  next  morning-  Musa  came  out  upon  the 
piazza  and  looked  upon  the  scene,  all-glorious  in  the 
light  of  the  newly-risen  sun;  her  spirit  expanded  in  joy 
and  in  worship  for  a  moment,  and  then,  quickly  as  the 
coming  of  a  summer  shower,  she  burst  into  tears. 

"Oh,  my  little  Musette!  Oh,  my  lost  child!  How 
happy  you  would  have  been  here!  How  happy  you 
would  have  made  us!"  she  exclaimed,  as  she  dropped 
into  one  of  the  rustic  seats,  and  abandoned  herself  to 
the  storm  of  grief  that  swept  over  her  soul,  thankful 
that  for  once  she  could  weep  unobserved  and  unre- 
strained— thankful  that  her  husband  had  gone  on  a  tour 
of  inspection  through  the  place,  and  would  not  be  back 
until  breakfast  time. 

When  the  tempest  had  subsided  and  left  her  calmer, 
she  went  down  among  the  parterres  of  flowers  below  the 
house  and  gathered  a  bouquet  of  scarlet  geraniums, 
heart's-ease,  heliotrope,  cape  jessamine,  clove  pinks,  tube- 
roses and  other  beautiful  and  fragrant  flowers,  and 
brought  them  in  and  put  them  in  a  vase  and  set  them  on 
the  breakfast-table. 

August  came  in  bright,  healthy  and  hungry  from  his 
morning  ride.  Musa  rang  for  breakfast,  and  they  sat 
down  at  the  table. 

"When  we  met  here  a  year  ago,  August,  I  welcomed 
you  to  my  house;  now  you  must  welcome  me  to  yours," 
said  Musa,  with  a  smile. 

"What  is  this,  my  darling,  about  'mine'  and  'yours/ 
'yours'  and  'mine?'  There  are  no  such  pronouns  for  us 
— only  ours,"  said  August,  heartily. 

"I  promised  to  go  down  and  see  Clarice  and  her  baby 
this  morning.  Can  you  take  me  in  the  sailboat,  Au- 
gust?" she  next  asked. 

"Of  course;  I  have  already  ordered  the  boat.  So  if 
you  have  got  through  breakfast,  my  love,  you  may  go 
and  put  on  your  hat,"  said  August. 

Musa  rang  the  bell  for  a  servant  to  come  and  clear 
away,  and  then  she  arose  and  went  upstairs  to  get  ready 
for  her  sail.    She  soon  returned,  wearing  a  broad- 


A  Stranger. 


159 


brimmed  straw  hat  and  a  white  beaver-cloth  sack,  and 
doeskin  gauntlets. 

An  hour's  delightful  sail  brought  them  to  the  low, 
sandy  beach  known  as  The  Shoals,  above  which,  on  a 
gently-undulated  green  lawn,  shaded  with  acacia  trees, 
stood  the  old-fashioned  homestead  of  the  Howards,  with 
its  tall  chimneys  at  each  gable-end,  its  steep  roof  and 
its  long  front  piazzas,  above  and  below. 

Captain  Howard  was  on  the  piazza,  and  he  came  down 
to  welcome  the  morning  visitors. 

"I  wish  you  much  joy  of  your  ycung  son,  Captain/' 
said  Mr.  Carew,  cordially  shaking  his  hand,  when  the 
first  formal  greetings  were  over. 

Horace  Howard  murmured  some  polite,  but  rather  in- 
articulate expressions  of  acknowledgment. 

He  looked  very  happy  but  very  much  embarrassed,  for 
he  was  a  young  father,  and  not  yet  quite  accustomed  to 
his  paternal  honors. 

But  he  invited  his  visitors  into  the  parlor,  where  Mrs. 
Shrewsbury  received  them  very  cordially. 

"Come  up  and  see  Clarice.  She  is  so  anxiously  ex- 
pecting you,"  said  Mrs.  Shrewsbury  to  Musa,  as  she  led 
the  way  to  Clarice's  room. 

''Oh,  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,  Musa!  my  own  dear 
Queen  Musa!  How  long  it  has  been  since  we  met!" 
sobbed  Clarice,  kissing  her  friends  amid  tears  of  delight. 

"Yes,  it  has  been  nearly  five  months,  dear,"  said  Musa, 
returning  her  caresses.  "And  now  let  me  see  the  little 
'crown  prince.'  Who  is  he  like?"  inquired  Musa,  bend- 
ing over  the  miniature  man. 

"He  is  like  no  one  but  his  angel  self.  What  young 
baby,  just  seven  days  from  heaven,  ever  was  really  like 
father  or  mother,  or  any  earthly  sinner?"  said  Clarice,  as 
she  uncovered  her  treasure  to  the  admiring  eyes  of  her 
friend. 

Musa  lavished  praises  without  measure  upon  this  small 
pearl  of  great  price.  And  then,  in  the  midst  of  her  half- 
jesting  flatteries,  she  suddenly  became  very  grave. 
Tears  filled  her  eyes  as  she  said,  seriously: 

"Oh,  take  care  of  him,  Clarice!  Guard  his  life  as  you 
never  guarded  your  own!    For  of  all  the  heart-break- 


i6o  A  Stranger. 


ing  sorrows  in  this  world,  the  loss  of  a  child  is  the  great- 
est, except  those  which  come  from  sin." 

"Indeed  I  will  take  care  of  him,  bless  him!"  said  the 
young  mother,  earnestly,  as  she  bent  and  kissed  her 
child.  "But  what  makes  you  talk  so,  dear  Musa?  In- 
deed you  alarm  me!  Do  you  think  he  looks  delicate?" 
she  anxiously  inquired. 

"No,  love,  no!  he  looks  fine  and  strong,  and  likely  to 
live  to  be  a  handsome  old  man  of  sixty,  when  you  are  a 
lovely  little  old  lady  of  eighty,"  said  Musa,  cheerfully. 

And  then,  to  turn  the  conversation,  she  inquired: 

"Do  you  know  anything  about  Armida  Sutton,  Clar- 
ice?   It  has  been  four  months  since  I  heard  from  her/' 

"Armida!  Why,  don't  you  know  what  has  become 
of  her,  Musa?"  inquired  Clarice,  in  surprise. 

"No,  dear.  As  I  told  you  before,  I  have  not  heard 
from  her  for  months." 

"Well,  then,  she  has  run  off  to  Europe  with  that  Prus- 
sian count,  Von  Ernheim." 

"What!"  exclaimed  Musa,  in  amazement. 

"Don't  you  remember  that  dandy  demon,  Count  Von 
Ernheim,  who  was  an  attache  to  the  Prussian  embassy, 
and  used  to  come  to  our  receptions  at  Vermont  avenue, 
where  Armida  used  to  flirt  with  him  in  her  cold,  stately 
manner?" 

"Certainly!" 

"Well,  he  is  the  man.  He  was  recalled  by  his  govern- 
ment, or  dismissed  by  his  chief,  or  something.  At  all 
events,  he  went  back  to  Europe  and  took  Armida  with 
him.  Some  say  as  his  wife,  some  say  as  his  traveling 
companion." 

"Gracious  Heaven,  Clarice!  How  do  you  know? 
mo  told  you?" 

"Mollie  Seymour.  You  remember  her?  She  was  one 
of  your  'Maries'  at  the  masked  ball.  And  I  have  corre- 
sponded with  her  ever  since  I  left  Washington." 

"But  Armida' s  poor  mother!  What  about  her?"  anx- 
iously inquired  Musa. 

"Mollie  Seymour,  good  little  girl  that  she  is,  went  out 
to  see  Mrs.  Sutton,  after  the  elopement.  She  found  her 
in  poor  health  and  deep  destitution,  yet  withal,  quite 
reconciled  to  being  deserted,  and  quite  proud  of  her 


A  Stranger. 


f6f 


daughter's  being  a  countess,  as  the  poor  woman  firmly 
believed  her  to  be." 

"And  as  she  probably  is,"  said  Musa.  "Armida  Sut- 
ton is  not  too  pure  and  good,  but  she  is  far  too  cold  and 
selfish  to  sacrifice  herself  for  love." 

"Weil,  at  all  events,  she  has  gone  and  left  her  mother 
alone  in  poverty  and  sickness,"  said  Clarice. 

"My  poor  foster-mother!  I  must  write  to  her  and 
send  relief  this  very  day.  And  I  will  ask  her  to  come 
down  here  and  live  with  me.  She  can  rent  out  or  sell 
her  wretched  little  farm,  which  in  her  hands  has  never 
paid  expenses,"  said  Musa. 

Then,  thinking  that  she  had  stayed  as  !ong  with  Clar- 
ice as  prudence  dictated,  she  arose  and  kissed  her  good- 
by,  promising  to  come  again  in  a  few  days. 

As  soon  as  Musa  reached  home,  she  sat  down  and 
wrote  an  affectionate  letter  to  Mrs.  Sutton,  pressing  her 
to  come  down  to  Bay  Beauty,  and  inclosing  a  check  to 
*neet  her  expenses.  This  kind  letter  was  answered 
sooner  than  Musa  could  have  hoped,  by  the  appearance 
of  Mrs.  Sutton  in  person. 

She  arrived  by  the  morning  boat,  about  the  middle  of 
May.  She  looked  pale  and  emaciated,  but  by  no  means 
depressed.  She  told  Musa  that  she  had  rented  out  her 
farm,  and  would  be  glad  to  remain  at  Bay  Beauty  as 
housekeeper  until  she  would  hear  from  her  daughter. 
Musa  kissed  her  in  silence.  She  could  make  no  comment 
on  this  speech. 

But,  to  Musa's  surprise,  in  a  few  days  after  the  arrival 
of  Mrs.  Sutton  at  Bay  Beauty,  a  foreign  letter  arrived 
for  her  that  had  been  forwarded  from  Rockville  by  the 
tenant  of  Harewood.  It  was  a  letter  from  her  daughter, 
inclosing  a  bill  of  exchange  for  a  considerable  sum  of 
money,  and  signed  Armida  Von  Ernheim.  The  poor 
forsaken  mother  was  delighted  and  grieved  at  the  same 
time,  and  she  expressed  these  mixed  sentiments  when 
she  said  to  Musa: 

"You  see,  my  dear  lady,  it  is  a  great  match  my  daugh- 
ter has  made.  But,  of  course,  it  separates  her  from  me. 
My  education  has  not  fitted  me  to  move  in  the  high 
circle  that  she  will  adorn," 


i6a 


Little  Musette. 


So  Mrs.  Sutton  remained  with  Musa  as  the  house- 
keeper at  Bay  Beauty. 

Pretty  Clarice  Howard  was  soon  able  to  leave  her  room. 
And  the  first  visit  that  she  made  was  to  her  best-beloved 
friend  Musa. 

The  summer  and  autumn  passed  pleasantly  to  the  col- 
ony of  friends  on  the  bayside.  The  life  there  was  calm 
and  beautiful,  and  would  have  been  delightful  to  Musa 
but  for  one  drawback.  Musa  deeply  and  secretly  mourned 
her  child,  and  could  not  be  comforted,  even  by  the  pros- 
pect of  being  the  mother  of  another  one. 

When  the  time  approached  at  which  they  should  have 
migrated  to  Washington  for  the  fashionable  season,  Musa 
pleaded  to  be  allowed  -to  spend  the  winter  at  Bay  Beauty. 
With  the  memory  of  her  lost  child  in  her  heart,  she  could 
not  endure  the  thought  of  entering  upon  a  season  of 
fashionable  gayety  and  dissipation.  And  Mr.  Carew,  who 
would  not  at  that  time  refuse  her  anything,  consented  to 
remain  at  Bay  Beauty. 

The  winter  passed  away,  and  spring  came  again,  reviv- 
ing the  life  and  beauty  of  all  nature,  and  teaching  again 
the  glorious  lesson  of  the  resurrection.  And  on  one  beau- 
tiful morning  in  May,  as  Musa  lay  faint  and  white  after 
a  night  of  suffering,  another  lovely  infant  girl  was  laid 
upon  her  bosom — a  golden-haired,  azure-eyed,  lily-fair 
Percie. 

Musa  clasped  it  to  her  heart,  kissed  it  and  blessed  it, 
and  then  suddenly  covered  her  face  with  both  hands  and 
burst  into  tears  and  sobs,  moaning: 

"Oh,  my  child!  my  child!  Oh,  my  meek  darling t  my 
first  born !  my  little  lost  Musette !" 


CHAPTER  XV. 
LITTLE  MUSETTE. 

We  must  follow  the  fortunes  of  the  child,  Musette. 

Perhaps  there  was  something  to  palliate,  though  not  to 
excuse,  the  act  of  Mary  Morris,  in  abducting,  for  love,  the 
little  daughter  of  Musa  Percie. 

Mary  Morris  was  of  English  parentage,  and  had  been 


Little  Musette. 


an  orphan  from  her  early  childhood.  She  had  been 
brought  up  by  an  uncle  and  aunt,  who,  being  blessed  with 
but  few  shillings  and  many  children,  had  but  little,  either 
of  money  or  of  love,  to  bestow  on  their  orphan  niece. 
They  kept  a  little  alehouse  in  a  narrow  street  down  near 
the  docks  at  Liverpool,  and  frequented  by  sailors.  It  was 
there  Mary  grew  up  and  became  a  barmaid. 

And  there  she  first  met  Richard  Morris,  the  American 
sailor,  whom  she  eventually  married.  It  was  a  sudden 
marriage  between  two  impulsive  young  people,  inspired  by 
some  mutual  liking,  but  by  no  deep  or  permanent  affec- 
tion. 

When  Richard's  ship,  the  United  States  sloop  of  war 
Plymouth,  was  ordered  home,  his  young  wife  followed 
him  to  Xew  York  in  the  emigrant  ship  Liberator. 

But  Dick  never  remained  longer  in  port  than  he  could 
help.  He  was  a  "natural-born"  sailor,  and  the  sea  was 
his  first  and  last  and  only  real  love. 

So  when  the  Plymouth  was  paid  off,  the  term  of  his  en- 
listment being  out,  he  shipped  himself  on  board  the  United 
States  frigate  Independence,  bound  for  the  Cape  of  Good 
Hope  and  the  East  Coast  of  Africa. 

Then  he  generously  gave  his  young  wife  the  whole  of 
his  money,  tenderly  kissed  her  good-by,  and  gayly  left  her 
alone  in  a  strange  land,  and  within  a  few  weeks  of  her 
expected  confinement. 

Mary  Morris  cried  a  good  deal  for  the  first  few  hours, 
and  then  consoled  herself  by  going  out  shopping  and 
spending  money  rather  recklessly. 

Her  baby  came  in  due  time,  a  little  boy,  who  only 
breathed  the  air  of  this  world  and  then  passed  away.  Mary 
Morris  cried  a  great  deal  more  over  this  disappointment 
than  she  did  over  the  departure  of  her  husband.  She  was 
a  simple-minded,  affectionate  creature,  a  Christian  in  faith 
if  not  always  in  practice,  and  she  knew  her  baby  was  in 
heaven,  and  she  thought  she  could  be  reconciled  if  she 
only  had  another  baby. 

It  was  then  that  Mrs.  Duff,  the  good  woman  with  whom 
she  boarded,  advised  her  to  seek  a  situation  as  wet-nurse. 
Seeing  Musa  Percie's  carefully-disguised  advertisement, 
she  answered  it  in  person,  and  was  engaged,  as  has  been 


164 


Little  Musette. 


related,  to  take  charge  of  the  little  Musette,  then  hut  a 
few  weeks  old. 

She  took  the  lovely  babe  to  her  bosom  and  to  her  heart, 
and  soon  lavished  upon  it  all  the  idolatrous  love  that  she 
would  have  bestowed  upon  her  own  child,  and  infinitely 
more  than  she  had  ever  given  to  any  other  creature,  even 
to  her  handsome,  careless,  sailor  bridegroom. 

And  little  Musette  soon  gave  love  for  love  without 
measure,  "heaped  up  and  overflowing."  And  the  beauti- 
ful babe  and  her  blooming  nurse  became,  in  household 
phrase,  "all  the  world  to  one  another." 

And  when  a  year  had  passed  away,  and  the  time  ap- 
proached when  the  little  Musette  must  be  weaned,  the 
young  nurse  became  painfully  alarmed  lest  the  babe  should 
be  taken  from  her.  So  great  was  her  anxiety  on  this  sub- 
ject that  it  forced  her  to  speak  of  it  to  the  child's  mother. 

And  then  it  was  that  Musa,  sympathizing  with  poor 
Mollie's  feelings,  gave  her  the  rash  promise  that  the  child 
whom  she  had  nourished  at  her  own  bosom,  and  whom  she 
loved  so  devotedly,  should  never  be  separated  from  her, 
but  that  wherever  little  Musette  should  be  taken,  Mollie 
Morris  should  go,  if  she  should  choose  to  do  so,  either  as 
her  nurse  or  as  her  maid. 

This  promise  Musa  had  really  and  literally  forgotten, 
almost  as  soon  as  it  was  given.  But  Mary  Morris  remem- 
bered it  distinctly,  and  trusted  to  it  implicitly. 

And  so  when,  one  Saturday  morning,  early  in  January, 
she  was  called  into  the  small  parlor  and  informed  by  Mrs. 
Wilks  that  the  little  Musette's  mother  was  just  married  to 
a  gentleman  named  Carew,  and  that  the  pair  were  going 
to  Europe  by  the  next  Saturday's  steamer,  and  intended 
to  take  the  young  child  with  them  and  leave  her  nurse  be- 
hind, Mollie's  rage,  grief  and  despair  were  boundless. 

In  vain  Mrs.  Wilks  reasoned  with  her,  reminding  her 
•  that  the  child  belonged  not  to  her,  but  to  the  mother. 

Mollie's  tears  "turned  to  sparks  of  fire"  as  she  answered 
that  bringing  an  unwelcome  babe  into  the  world  against 
her  will  didn't  make  a  mother — that  love  and  care  and 
nursing  and  devotion  made  a  mother,  and  that  she  herself, 
Mollie  Morris,  had  been  "a  million  times  more  of  a  mother 
to  the  halMorsaken  babe  than  its  real  mother  had  ever 
been." 


Little  Musette. 


165 


And  that  night  Mollie  first  conceived  the  idea  of  abduct- 
ing the  child. 

"It  almost  broke  my  poor  heart  whenever  she  would 
come  and  take  my  baby  away  from  me  for  a  night,  and  I 
know  it  will  kill  me  dead  if  she  takes  her  away  forever. 
Forever,  forever!  Oh!"  and  with  the  word  she  fell  into 
strong  hysterics,  and  had  them  all  to  herself. 

Mollie  came  out  of  this  fit  with  the  resolution  to  run 
away  with  the  baby.  She  at  once  began  to  make  prepara- 
tions for  flight,  and  carried  out  her  plans  with  consum- 
mate skill.  She  fled  to  Boston,  as  a  preliminary  move- 
ment to  going  to  England.  She  wanted  to  put  the  broad 
ocean  between  herself  and  any  chance  of  discovery.  She 
meant  to  go  back  to  Liverpool,  to  the  little  alehouse  kept 
by  her  aunt  and  uncle,  and  resume  her  old  place  as  bar- 
maid there  until  she  should  meet  her  husband  again.  She 
meant  to  tell  her  relations,  and  her  husband  also,  in  case 
she  should  ever  meet  him,  that  Musette  was  her  own 
child — the  child  that  she  had  been  expecting  when  he  left 
her  to  go  on  that  African  cruise.  And  as  the  child's  age 
corresponded  with  that  of  the  one  she  had  lost,  her  story 
would  be  plausible  enough  to  be  accepted  without  the  least 
suspicion.  Xo  one  could  contradict  her,  and  so  the  beauti- 
ful child  should  be  hers  forever. 

It  was  on  the  morning  of  the  20th  of  January  that 
Mollie,  in  looking  over  the  shipping  news  of  a  paper,  saw 
that  the  bark  Fairy,  Captain  Lloyd,  was  appointed  to 
sail  for  Liverpool  on  the  26th.  She  immediately  went 
down  to  the  agent  and  engaged  passage.  On  the  morning 
that  the  vessel  was  to  sail,  Mollie  went  down  to  the  pier 
where  the  Fairy  lay,  and  went  on  board  in  the  midst  of 
the  great  bustle  that  always  attends  the  clearing. 

She  thought  she  would  not  go  below  to  her  berth  until 
the  ship  was  off.  She  was  interested  in  the  busy  scene  on 
deck,  and,  besides,  she  now  felt  comparatively  safe. 

She  felt  that  she  had  covered  all  her  tracks  so  that  she 
never  could  be  traced  and  pursued.  And  though  her  con- 
science troubled  her  a  little,  she  stifled  it  and  triumphed 
in  what  she  supposed  to  be  her  secure  possession  of  the 
child.  At  length  the  last  freight  was  taken  on  and  stowed 
away  in  the  hold,  and  the  hatches  were  fastened  down. 

The  officers  and  crew  were  nreparing  to  make  sail.  And 


166 


Little  Musette. 


friends  who  had  come  to  see  passengers  off  were  taking 
their  last  leave.  Hasty  kisses  were  given,  hasty  last  words 
spoken,  and  a  great  crowd  moved  toward  the  gangplank ; 
and  Mollie  was  rejoicing  in  the  immediate  prospect  of 
getting  off  to  sea,  when  she  felt  a  hand  laid  upon  her 
shoulder,  and  heard  a  voice  say  close  to  her  ear : 

"Why,  Mary  Morris!   Is  it  yourself,  lass?" 

Mollie  started,  looked  up,  and  turned  deadly  white  with 
terror.  There  before  her  stood  'the  most  intimate  acquaint- 
ance she  had  in  New  York,  outside  of  the  Brown  Cottage 
— Mrs.  Duff,  the  woman  with  whom  she  had  lived  previ- 
ous to  engaging  -as  the  nurse  of  Musa  Percie's  child. 

Mrs.  Duff  had  visited  Mollie  frequently,  both  at  Har- 
lem and  at  Inwood,  and  was  consequently  perfectly  well 
acquainted  both  with  the  nurse  and  the  child.  Mollie  was 
so  panic-stricken  at  the  sight  of  this  woman  that  she 
could  not  speak  nor  take  her  eyes  from  the  face. 

"Why,  Mary,  lass,  what's  the  matter  with  you?  What 
makes  you  glare  at  me  as  if  I  was  a  ghost  ?  And  what 
are  you  doing  here  with  that  child?  And,  oh,  to  be  sure! 
Don't  you  know  as  there's  a  reward  " 

"All  ashore!"  bawled  a  peremptory  voice  from  the 
poop. 

"Good  Lord  alive!  I  shall  be  carried  away!"  cried 
Mrs.  Duff,  in  alarm,  suddenly  breaking  off  from  her  new- 
found acquaintance,  and  hurrying  to  the  side  of  the  ship, 
and  rushing  on  to  the  pier  just  a  second  before  the  gang- 
plank was  withdrawn. 

She  stood  panting  on  the  pier.  And  before  she  could 
recover  her  breath,  the  sails  filled,  and  the  doomed  ship 
glided  away  to  sea. 

Mrs.  Duff  remained  on  the  pier,  gazing  after  the  ship 
until  it  was  out  of  sight. 

"To  think  of  my  coming  across  Mary  Morris  and  the 
child  on  the  deck  of  the  Fairy  this  morning!  And  she 
been  advertised  for,  with  such  a  reward  offered,  for  the 
last  month  or  more!  If  I'd  been  a  little  sooner,  I 
might  a  had  her  stopped  and  made  my  own  fortune. 
Anyway,  I  can  give  information  now  and  get  something 
handsome,  if  not  the  whole  reward.  Lor',  how  lucky  I 
went  on  board  to  see  my  nevvy  and  his  wife  off  to  the 
the  old  country!   Now  I'll  go  right  away  and  find  out 


Little  Musette. 


167 


all  I  can  about  her,  and  then  I'll  go  back  to  York  and 
get  the  money.  My  duty,  too!  A  thieving  jade!  to  go 
and  carry  off  her  missis'  child !  I  wonder  what  she 
thinks  she's  gwine  to  do  with  it,  now  she's  got  it?" 

So  cogitating,  Mrs.  Duff  turned  away  from  the  pier 
and  bent  her  steps  toward  the  ageni's  office,  and  asked 
to  look  at  the  list  of  passengers  who  had  gone  out. 

The  obliging  agent  showed  it  to  her,  but  there  was 
no  such  name  in  it  as  Mary  Morris. 

"She's  gone  under  some  other  name,  as  I  might  a 
known  she  would,  but  she's  gone,"  said  Mrs.  Duff,  to 
herself,  as  she  thanked  the  agent  and  left  the  office. 

She  went  down  to  New  York  by  the  night's  train. 
And  the  next  morning  she  put  herself  in  communication 
with  the  advertisers,  or  rather  with  their  representa- 
tives, Messrs.  Wilks  and  Ferret.  She  received  half  the 
reward  down,  with  the  promise  of  the  other  half  as  soon 
as  Mary  Morris  and  Musette  should  be  actually  re- 
covered. 

And  on  the  next  day  Detective  Ferret  and  Mrs.  Wilks, 
after  communicating  the  facts  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carew 
by  letter,  embarked  on  the  Darien  for  Liverpool,  to 
intercept  the  Fairy  and  recover  the  child,  as  has  been 
already  told. 

Mary  Morris  remained  panic-stricken  on  the  deck 
where  she  had  been  so  suddenly  discovered  and  so 
abruptly  left  by  Mrs.  Duff.  Paralyzed  by  the  sense  of 
peril  she  had  just  passed  through,  she  sat  staring  stup- 
idly at  the  receding  piers  crowded  with  people,  among 
whom  she  saw  as  in  a  haze  the  burly  form  of  Mrs.  Duff 
still  watching  her. 

Feeling  sure  that  Mrs.  Duff  would  report  the  discov- 
ery of  herself  and  Musette  on  board  the  Fairy,  Mollie 
left  the  vessel  at  Halifax,  although  she  had  paid  her 
passage  to  Liverpool. 

Mollie,  under  the  name  of  Nelson,  and  in  the  character 
of  a  widow,  took  up  her  abode  with  Mrs.  Martin,  an- 
other widow,  and  got  as  much  needlework  as  she  cared 
to  do. 

She  was  in  no  hurry  to  leave  Halifax.  For  the  pres- 
ent she  would  rest  there,  only  taking  care  to  leave  the 
city  before  she  could  be  traced  there  by  her  pursuers. 


168 


Little  Musette. 


But  she  had  not  been  more  than  ten  days  in  the  city, 
nor  more  than  three  in  her  new  boarding-house,  when 
terrible  news  reached  Halifax.  The  bark  Fairy  had 
foundered  in  a  storm  at  sea,  with  two  hundred  souls  on 

board! 

The  news  had  come  from  New  York,  whither  the 
half-dozen  survivors  of  the  wreck  picked  up  on  a  raft 
by  the  Mercury  had  been  carried  into  port.  Mollie  saw 
herself  and  the  child  set  down  in  the  list  of  the  lost, 
and  thus  it  came  to  be  firmly  believed  that  the  daughter 
of  Musa  Percie,  with  her  nurse,  was  lost  in  the  wreck 
of  the  Fairy. 

A  thrill  of  horror  passed  through  the  soul  of  the 
woman  as  she  read  the  account  of  the  disaster,  and  re- 
flected how  narrowly  she  and  the  child  had  escaped 
perishing  with  the  two  hundred  victims  who  went  down 
in  the  Fairy  that  awful  night. 

As  soon  as  she  recovered  from  the  shock,  however, 
she  reflected  how  perfectly  secure  she  should  henceforth 
be  from  all  chance  of  pursuit.  She  and  the  child  were 
believed  to  have  been  lost  at  sea. 

The  child's  mother  would  grieve  for  awhile,  but  would 
eventually  become  resigned.  And  the  nurse  would  be 
left  in  peaceable  possession  forever. 

And  Mollie  hugged  the  child  to  her  bosom  in  a  new 
ardor  of  love  and  joy,  feeling  that  now  nothing  but  death 
could  separate  them.  She  would  teach  little  Musette  to 
call  her  mother,  and  no  one  in  the  world  should  ever 
know  but  that  she,  Mollie,  was  really  the  child's  mother. 
And  she  would  change  her  name  from  Musette  to  Mary. 

Mollie  had  still  five  hundred  dollars  left  of  her  sav- 
ings. This  sum  she  wished  to  keep  intact.  So  she  went 
to  work  industriously  with  her  needle  to  support  herself 
and  the  child  during  their  sojourn  in  Halifax. 

She  remained  in  Halifax  until  the  first  of  May,  work- 
ing so  well  that  she  was  enabled  not  only  to  pay  her 
way  there,  but  to  save  enough  to  buy  her  ticket  for  a 
second-class  passage  in  an  ocean  steamer  to  Liverpool. 
On  the  first  of  May  she  embarked  with  the  child  on 
board  the  Greenland,  traveling  under  her  assumed  name 
of  Nelson.  After  a  very  pleasant  voyage,  she  arrived 
with  her  little  charge  safe  at  Liverpool, 


Little  Musette.  169 

Leaving  her  trunks  at  the  Custom  House,  she  took 
little  Musette  by  the  hand  and  walked  through  the  net- 
work of  narrow  streets  that  led  her  in  a  zigzag  way  to 
the  little  alehouse  in  the  crowded  block  that  had  been 
the  home  of  her  childhood. 

Xo  change  seemed  to  have  taken  place  in  that  lo- 
cality during  the  two  years  of  her  absence.  The  same 
dingy  houses  flanked  the  sidewalk.  The  same  quaint 
swinging  sign  hung  in  front  of  the  old  building,  the 
Prince's  Feathers. 

She  walked  in,  leading  the  child  by  the  hand.  Neither 
I  her  aunt  nor  her  uncle  was  at  the  counter.  A  big, 
•  burly,  red-faced  and  red-haired  man  of  about  forty  years 
of  age  was  tending  the  bar.  Mary  knew  him  well.  He 
had  been  head  waiter  at  a  hotel  near  by,  and  a  fre- 
quent visitor  at  her  uncles  house.  But  he  did  not  seem 
to  recognize  her. 

''Mr.  Corbin,  don't  you  know  me?''  she  inquired. 

He  raised  his  head  and  stared  at  her  for  a  moment,  and 
then  exclaimed: 

"Eh?    What?    Why,  Mary,  my  lass,,  is  this  you  ?'" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Corbin.  How  is  Uncle  George  and  Aunt 
Jane?" 

''They  were  well  when  I  heard  last." 

"'Where  are  my  aunt  and  uncle,  please,  Mr.  Corbin?" 

The  man  stared  again  before  he  answered. 

"To  think  of  your  expecting  to  find  them  here!  Why, 
lass,  they  all  emigrated  to  Xew  Zealand,  bag  and  bag- 
gage, children,  puppies,  kittens  and  canary  birds,  as 
much  as  eighteen  months  ago." 

"To  New  Zealand!"  exclaimed  Mary,  in  amazement. 

"Ay,  to  Xew  Zealand!  and  a  good  job,  too,  with  as 
many  children  as  they  had." 

"And  who  keeps  this  place  now?"  inquired  Mary,  un- 
easily. 

"I  do.  I  bought  'em  out,  house,  stock,  good-will  and 
all.  And  a  good  job  for  me.  A  man  and  his  wife  can 
get  along  where  a  house  full  of  kids  would  starve,"  mut- 
tered this  landlord,  as  he  served  out  a  pot  of  porter  to 
a  fresh  customer. 

tThen  there  came  a  lull  in  the  noise,  an  interregnum  in 


Lutie  Musette, 


the  receipt  of  custom.  And  for  a  few  minutes  the  place 
was  left  to  the  landlord  and  woman  and  child. 

"Come  inside  the  bar  and  sit  down,  Mary.  You've  set 
here  often  enough  in  old  times,  lass,  eh?  And  tell  me, 
now,"  he  said,  as  soon  as  she  had  accepted  his  invitation 
and  seated  herself  and  taken  the  child  on  her  lap,  "tell 
me,  Mary,  where's  your  man?" 

''He  is  cruising  on  the  coast  of  Africa,  and  won't  be 
home  for  months.  He  advised  me  before  he  went  away 
to  come  back  here  to  my  uncle  and  aunt,  and  stay  with 
them  till  he  came  back.  But  I  was  so  well  situated  in  the 
i  States  I  had  no  call  to  come  until  lately." 

"Is  that  his  kid  ?"  inquired  the  landlord. 

"Yes,"  said  Mary,  "it  is." 

"And  so  you  came  over  expecting  to  stay  with  the  old 
'uns,  did  you?"  inquired  the  landlord. 

"Yes,"  answered  Mary,  "but  not  to  live  on  them.  I 
thought  to  take  my  old  place  as  barmaid,  and  pay  for 
my  keep  and  the  child's  that  way.  You  know  I  used  to 
be  a  great  favorite,  Mr.  Corbin." 

"That  you  were,  lass,  and  drew  a  deal  of  custom.  The 
business  never  prospered  so  well  after  you  left.  And  that 
was  partly  why  George  Bean  made  up  his  mind  to  emi- 
grate to  New  Zealand,  and  a  good  job,  too,  as  I  said  be- 
fore. Well,  lass,  and  what  do  you  think  of  doing  now, 
seeing  as  your  people  are  not  here  to  take  you  in?" 
kindly  inquired  John  Corbin. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  I'm  so  taken  aback.  I  shall 
have  to  take  time  to  turn  myself  around  first,"  sadly  an- 
swered the  woman. 

"Well,  now,  look  here,  Mary,  you're  just  the  right 
woman,  come  to  the  right  place  in  the  right  time,  if  you 
did  but  know  it.  Our  barmaid,  Ann  Kittridge,  left  us 
three  days  ago  to  seek  her  fortune  in  the  States.  Hope 
she'll  find  it,  that's  all.  Well,  me  and  the  missus  have 
more  than  our  hands  full  till  we  find  another  girl  to  suit 
us.  And  I  don't  see  where  we  could  find  one  to  suit  us 
better  than  you — no,  nor  so  well  So,  my  lass,  if  so  be 
you're  agreeable  you  can  step  right  into  your  old  quar- 
ters as  nat'rel  as  if  you  had  never  left  'em." 

"But  the  child?"  suggested  Mary. 

"Oh,  the  kid  will  be  no  encumbrance !   If  there  was 


Little  Musette. 


more'n  one  of  them,  why,  to  be  sure   But  being 

only  one,  the  missus  won't  mind.  And  here  she  comes 
now,"  said  the  landlord,  as  the  landlady,  a  plump,  rosy, 
good-humored  dame  of  about  forty  years,  entered  the 
bar. 

"Say,  Martha,  here's  Mollie  Bean  come  back  from 
'Merica  to  stop  with  her  people.  Didn't  know,  you 
know,  that  they'd  gone  away.  I  say,  she's  just  in  the  nick 
of  time  to  take  her  old  place  behind  the  counter.  What 
do  you  think  of  it  ?"  inquired  John  Corbin,  while  his  wife 
was  shaking  hands  with  Mary  and  welcoming  her  back. 

"Why,  I  think  if  she's  willing,  it'll  be  just  what  we 
want.   Is  that  your  Child,  Mary?"  inquired  the  landlady. 

"There,  go  into  the  back  parlor  and  talk  to  the  missus, 
Mary,  and  arrange  matters  with  her.  And  I'll  be  agree- 
able. Here  comes  a  lot  of  customers,"  said  Mr.  Corbin, 
as  he  hustled  the  two  women  and  the  child  good-humor- 
edly  out  of  the  barroom. 

The  result  of  the  interview  with  the  landlady  was  that 
Mary  Morris  was  engaged  as  barmaid  at  the  Princes 
Feathers. 

Old  acquaintanceships,  interrupted  for  two  years,  were 
renewed,  and  old  habitues  of  the  house  returned,  and 
Mary  proved  as  attractive  in  drawing  custom  now  as  she 
had  been  before  her  marriage.  And  she  was  quite  nat- 
urally, under  the  circumsatnees,  called  Mollie  Bean,  as 
the  name  by  which  she  had  been  best  known  to  her 
neighbors. 

Little  Musette  became  the  pet  of  the  house.  But  Mol- 
lie told  everybody  who  noticed  the  child  that  she  was 
called  Mary,  after  herself ;  and  this  was  soon  shortened 
Into  May,  and  the  child  soon  learned  to  answer  to  it. 

But  she  never  forgot  her  own.  And  when  any  stranger 
inquired : 

"What  is  your  name,  darling?"  she  always  answered: 
"Muta." 

Every  one  loved  her,  because,  if  they  would  only  per- 
mit her  to  do  so,  she  loved  every  one.  It  was  her  nature 
to  love.  She  had  inherited  the  very7  best  qualities  of 
father  and  mother.  She  had  inherited  all  her  father's 
noble  disinterestedness  and  all  her  mother's  impassioned 
earnestness  without  that  mother's  self-willfulness.  But 


172 


Little  Musette. 


as  yet  this  nature  was  unconscious,  intuitive  in  the  in- 
fant's spirit. 

With  her  native  self-forgetfulness  and  tender  sympathy 
and  solicitous  affection,  with  her  soft  caresses  and  ear- 
nest, wistful  gaze,  and  sweet  voice  in  murmuring  her  one 
beautiful  phrase,  "I  lo'e  you,"  she  won  all  hearts. 

No  one,  not  the  most  hardened  man  or  the  most  irrita- 
ble woman  in  that  rough  neighborhood,  could  speak 
harshly  to  this  sweet  child,  Who  offered  love,  and  only 
love,  to  all. 

Once  only  the  little  one  was  wounded.  Another  child, 
on  the  same  street,  a  sickly,  suffering,  peevish  little  girl, 
struck  Musette  in  the  face. 

She  stood  still  in  amazement  for  a  moment,  and  then 
went  up  to  her  little  aggressor,  and,  putting  her  hand  on 
her  head  with  every  expression  of  sympathy,  kissed  her 
and  murmured : 

"Poor  Kitty  !   Kitty  so  sick  !" 

It  seemed  as  if  she  intuitively  felt  that  nothing  but 
sickness  or  suffering  could  have  caused  such  an  outbreak 
of  temper. 

Many  such  incidents  as  that  marked  the  baby's  first 
years  of  life,  and  caused  the  old  women  of  the  street  to 
shake  their  heads  and  say : 

"That  child  will  never  live  here.  Such  children  never 
do." 

Yet  Musette  lived,  and  lived  healthfully  and  happily. 

And  Mary  Bean,  as  Mrs.  Morris  was  now  always 
called,  grew  to  love  and  worship  the  child  more  and 
more. 

So  passed  the  first  year  after  their  arrival  in  England. 

The  child  was  nearly  three  years  old.  Nothing  had  oc- 
curred to  disturb  Mary  Morris  on  accont  of  Musette. 

She  had  not  heard  a  syllable  of  or  from  the  bereaved 
mother  or  her  friends.  And  as  the  time  passed  she  grew 
perfectly  confident  of  security  in  the  possession  of  the 
child. 

The  time  drew  near  when  she  might  expect  her  hus- 
band home.  He  had  enlisted  as  a  common  seaman  in  the 
United  States  naval  service  for  three  years.  And  h'.s 
term  of  enlistment  had  nearly  expired.  She  knew  that 
he  would  return  to  the  United  States  in  his  ship.  But  she 


Little  Musette. 


173 


thought  that  when  the  ship  should  be  paid  off,  he  would 
come  over  to  Liverpool  to  seek  her  in  her  own  home. 

And  then  she  would  present  little  Musette  to  him  as 
their  own  child.  How  proud  he  would  be  of  the  littk 
girl !  of  her  beauty,  her  intelligence  and  'her  goodness  ! 

It  was  while  Mary  Morris  was  indulging  in  these 
visions  that  an  event  occurred  which  disarranged  all  her 
calculations,  and  seriously  affected  the  future  destiny  of 
little  Musette. 

One  afternoon  a  man,  with  a  small  monkey  and  an 
organ,  stopped  before  the  house,  and  began  to  play  while 
the  monkey  danced. 

This  collected  a  crowd.  And  a  crowd  is  generally 
thirsty.  So  when  the  man  stopped  playing,  and  the 
monkey  ceased  to  dance  and  began  to  carry  around  his 
little  cap  to  collect  the  pennies,  half  the  crowd  slipped 
into  the  house,  preferring  to  spend  their  pence  in  ale. 

And  Mollie  had  as  much  as  she  could  do  to  serve  all 
these  customers.  Consequently,  she  lost  sight  for  a  few 
moments  of  little  Musette,  who  had  gone  out  and  min- 
gled with  the  crowd,  and  being  so  small,  had  easily 
slipped  through  it  and  got  quite  up  to  the  spot  where 
the  monkey  was  dancing. 

She  was  so  delighted  with  the  fun  that  she  began 
to  laugh  and  clap  her  hands  with  glee. 

And  when  the  man  stopped  playing  and  the  monkey 
stopped  dancing  and  began  to  carry  around  his  little 
cap  to  collect  the  pennies,  she  followed  him  through  the 
crowd,  trying  to  coax  him  to  take  a  little  cake  from 
her  hand. 

But  "Jocko"  was  too  well  trained  to  neglect  the  main 
chance.  And  he  diligently  collected  tribute  money  un- 
til the  lessening  crowd  had  filed  into  the  alehouse  or  dis- 
persed to  their  usual  haunts,  and  no  one  was  left  but  a 
few  little  street  vagrants.  The  man  strapped  his  organ 
to  his  back  and  led  the  monkey  by  a  string  and  left 
the  spot. 

Musette  followed,  still  offering  her  cake  to  the  mon- 
key, who,  at  last,  snatched  it.  And  then  Musette  con- 
tinued to  follow,  watching  him  as  he  ate  it. 

And  so  the  man,  the  monkey,  half-a-dozen  idle  boys 
anrl  girls  and  little  Musette,  wandered  away  from  the* 


174 


Little  Musette. 


neighborhood  and  down  nearer  the  water-side,  where 
there  was  much  shipping  and  seemingly  an  endless  for- 
est of  masts. 

Here  the  man  stopped  before  the  entrance  of  an  un- 
derground "saloon,"  or  low  drinking  cellar,  and  as  a 
crowd  collected,  he  unstrapped  his  organ  and  began  to 
play,  while  the  monkey  danced  and  little  Musette 
laughed  and  clapped  her  hands  with  delight. 

And  even  in  that  rough  crowd  of  men  and  women, 
the  beautiful,  attractive  child  divided  attention  with  the 
music  and  the  monkey. 

The  organ-grinder  quickly  perceived  this,  and  so,  when 
he  had  finished  his  piece,  and  started  the  monkey  around 
with  its  little  red  cap  to  collect  the  pennies,  he  took  off 
his  own  old  round  hat,  and  gave  it  to  little  Musette, 
with  a  sign  that  she  also  should  follow  the  monkey  and 
collect  the  tribute. 

And  the  child,  delighted  to  be  of  use,  toddled  around 
after  the  monkey,  holding  up  the  old  hat  to  every 
kind-looking  face,  and  pence  and  half-pence  rattled  down 
into  it  until  it  was  almost  too  heavy  for  the  little  hands 
to  hold.  Then  the  organ-grinder  took  it  from  her,  and 
took  out  the  contents  by  handfuls  and  transferred  them 
to  his  pockets. 

The  man  strapped  the  organ  upon  his  back  again  and 
took  his  monkey  by  the  string.  Then  he  looked  around. 
It  was  growing  quite  dark.  The  street  lamps  were  be- 
ing lighted,  one  after  the  other.  And  now  there  was  no 
one  near  the  organ-grinder  except  little  Musette,  who 
had  sunk  down  upon  the  pavement,  quite  tired  out, 
where  she  sat,  grasping  the  leg  of  the  man's  trousers, 
lest  he  should  go  and  leave  her  alone. 

He  looked  down  at  the  child  with  even  more  atten- 
tion than  he  had  yet  bestowed  upon  her.  She  was  now 
over  three  years  of  age,  and  being  a  large  child  she 
looked  still  older.  She  was  dressed  in  a  pink  calico 
frock  and  a  white  apron  and  white  pantalettes. 

"Now  I  wonder  where  I  picked  you  up?"  said  the 
man,  aloud.  He  could  not  remember  where  she  had 
started  to  follow  him,  although  he  knew  she  had  been 
with  him  for  more  than  two  hours.  "I  do  wonder  where 
I  did  pick  you  up  T  he  repeated. 


Little  Musette. 


175 


But  the  child  only  gazed  at  him  with  her  wistful,  dark 
eyes,  while  she  sat  and  held  fast  to  his  trousers. 

"Here's  a  go.  I  s'pose  I  have  to  take  you  home. 
Vill  yer  go  home  long  o'  me,  say?"  inquired  the  man, 
giving  his  free  hand  to  the  child  (the  other  one  was  oc- 
cupied with  the  monkey). 

"  'Es."  she  said,  so  eagerly  that  she  must  have  mis- 
understood him,  and  supposed  that  he  was  offering  to 
take  her  back  to  her  own  home. 

He  gave  her  his  hand,  and  she  sprang  to  her  feet. 

Then,  carrying  the  organ  strapped  upon  his  back,  and 
leading  the  child  with  his  Tight  hand,  and  the  monkey, 
by  a  string,  with  his  left,  he  toiled  on  toward  his  hum- 
ble lodging;  and  "weary  and  heavy  laden"  as  he  was, 
he  easily  accommodated  his  gait  to  that  of  the  little,  tired 
child. 

The  old  man's  lodgings  were  humble,  and  his  fare 
was  plain,  but  he  contrived  to  make  Musette  comfort- 
able for  the  night.  In  the  morning  he  started  out  on 
his  peregrinations,  intending,  if  possible,  to  find  Mu- 
sette's residence.  But  the  child  became  so  exhausted 
that  old  Barnaby  (the  organ-grinder)  sat  down,  near  the 
docks,  and  took  her  on  his  lap,  where  she  immediately 
fell  asleep. 

Meanwhile,  people  passed  and  repassed.  Occasionally 
one  would  stop  an  instant  and  take  notice  of  the  old 
organ-grinder  with  the  sleeping  child  upon  his  breast. 
Presently  a  lad  of  about  thirteen  years  of  age  passed 
by,  throwing  a  glance  at  the  group. 

Then  he  stopped  short,  looked  again,  turned  and 
walked  up  to  the  old  organ-grinder,  stared  at  the  little 
sleeper,  and  then  suddenly  exclaimed: 

"Hallo!  where  did  you  get  that  child?" 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  little  Musette  awoke,  sat 
up,  and  gazed  at  the  speaker  with  her  deep,  dark,  ear- 
nest eyes. 

The  boy  impulsively  held  out  his  arms,  exclaiming: 
"Hallo,  little  Musette!    Don't  you  know  Sam?  Your 

own  Sam?    Won't  you  come  to  Sam?    Poor  Sam!" 
"No;  she  don't  know  you,  and  she  won't  go  to  you," 

exclaimed  the  old  organ-grinder,  hugging  the  child  close 

to  his  bosom, 


176 


Little  Musette 


"Where  did  you  get  her?"  demanded  the  boy. 

"And  who  be  you,  pray,  as  asks  the  question  so 
mighty  peert?"  demanded  the  old  man,  in  his  turn. 

"I  am  Sam  Seaforth,  a  sailor  on  board  the  Honolulu, 
just  returned  from  a  two  years'  voyage  round  Cape 
Horn.  And  I  ask  you  again,  how  you  came  by  that 
child?" 

"Veil,  now,  how  do  you  know  as  she  is  not  my  own 
kid?" 

Sam  Seaforth,  for  the  boy  was  really  our  fugitive 
lad,  paused  and  thought  hard  and  fast  for  a  few  mo- 
*5  ments,  and  then  he  answered: 

"I  know  she's  not  yours,  because  I  know  she  is  mine 
— my  own  little  foster-sister." 

"And  vot  I  vant  to  know  is,  vot  right  you  have  to 
say  as  this  is  yer  little  sister  as  yer  haven't  seen  since 
she  vas  a  babby?"  persisted  the  organ-grinder. 

"I  told  you  she  was  the  s?.me.  I  know  her  by — by — 
by  herself.  Her  name  is  Musette.  And  she  has  got 
the  mark  of  a  small  red  'heart  on  the  palm  of  her  right 
hand." 

"Oh!  you  might  o'  seen  that  since  yer  been  standing 
here,"  objected  the  old  man. 

"How  could  I?  That  hand  has  been  around  you,  hid- 
den under  your  arm  all  the  time  I  have  been  here,  and 
you  know  it!  Come!  I  am  going  to  test  this  matter; 
for  I'm  blest  if  I  don't  find  out  all  about  how  you  got 
hold  of  the  child.  Baby,"  he  said,  softly  addressing  the 
child,  "-what  is  your  name?" 

"Muta,"  answered  the  little  one,  who  had  not  ceased 
to  gaze  on  his  face. 

"There,  I  told  you  so!  'Muta/  that's  the  nearest  she 
can  come  to  Musette.  Now  hold  out  your  little  hand. 
Let  Sam  see  your  little  hand." 

She  held  out  her  free  left  hand. 

"No,  not  that  one — the  other  hand." 

She  drew  her  right  hand  from  under  the  arm  of  the 
old  man,  and  held  it  out. 

"There!  I  told  you  so!  There!  look  at  that!  a  little 
red  heart  marked  in  her  right  hand — a  mother-mark,  her 
nurse  used  to  call  it.    Do  you  see  it  now?"  triumphantly 


Little  Musette. 


177 


inquired  the  boy,  holding  the  little  palm  open  under  the 
eyes  of  the  man. 

"Yes,  I  see  it  now,"  said  old  Barnaby,  "but  I  never  see 
it  afore/' 

"That's  because  you  haven't  had  the  child  in  your 
hands  long.  And  now,  once  for  all,  you  have  got  to  tell 
me  how  you  came  by  the  child,  or  else  I  call  a  police- 
man," said  Sam. 

"My  lad,  yer've  got  no  call  to  be  so  wiolent.  This 
young  un  followed  of  me  and  my  monkey  along  of  a  lot 
o'  kids  yesterday.  I  don't  know  vere  she  jined  me,  and 
it  wasn't  until  I  had  stopped  for  good  and  all,  and  this 
kid  was  left  alone  a  clinging  to  my  clothes,  as  I  found 
out  as  she  was  lost/' 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  her?" 

"Veil,  I  started  out  this  morning  to  look  for  her  par- 
ents; but  if  so  be  as  yer  'er  brother,  as  yer  say,  vy  ye'll 
know  vere  to  take  'er,  I  reckon,"  said  the  old  man,  still 
suspiciously. 

Sam  paused  for  a  little  while.  He  really  did  not  know 
what  to  say  without  betraying  family  secrets.  But  see- 
ing the  old  man  scrutinizing  him  with  more  and  more 
suspicion,  he  answered,  sharply: 

"Her  foster-brother,  I  said.  My  own  mother  had 
charge  of  her  from  the  first  and  up  to  the  time  I  went 
to  sea." 

"Vere  do  yer  mother  live?"  doubtfully  inquired  the 
organ-grinder. 

"She  didn't  live  in  this  neighborhood  when  I  went  to 
sea,  though  she  may  have  moved  since,"  discreetly  re- 
plied Sam. 

"Hodd  yer  don't  know  vere  yer  own  mother  lives," 
doubtfully  commented  old  Barnaby,  shaking  his  head. 

"I  tell  you  I  have  only  just  landed  this  very  morning. 
And  my  mother  may  have  moved.  I  know  she  didn't 
live  anywhere  near  here  when  I  went  away.  And  now 
look  here,  my  venerable  old  prophet,  now  I  have  set 
eyes  on  that  child,  I  don't  intend  to  lose  sight  of  her. 
So  take  up  your  line  of  march  straight  for  the  house 
where  you  took  her  from.  I  will  go  along  with  you  and 
keep  you  in  sight.  And,  mind,  if  I  see  the  least  sign  of 
foul  play,  I'll  call  a  policeman  and  ask  him  to  take  us 


§?8 


Little  Musette. 


three  before  a  magistrate,  who  will  soon  find  out  what 
is  what,"  said  Sam  Seaforth,  with  all  the  spirit  of  his 
grandfather,  the  Old  Harry,  inspiring  him. 

'"Good  lack,  lad!  yer  needn't  be  so  wicious.  Tan't 
likely  as  I  can  run  away  from  yer,  loaded  down  as  I'd  be 
with  the  horgan,  let  alone  leading  the  monkey  and  the 
child.  And  if  so  be  as  yer  agreeable,  you  may  just 
shoulder  the  child  yerself  and  tote  'er,  for  I  reckon  as 
how  she's  valked  enough  for  one  day,"  said  old  Barnaby, 
as  he  stood  Musette  upon  the  pavement,  while  he  took 
up  his  organ  and  strapped  it  upon  his  back. 

"Come,  Musette.  Come  to  Sam.  Come  to  'Own 
Sam' — Poor  Sam!"  pleaded  the  boy,  holding  cut  his 
arms. 

The  child  suddenly  ran  into  them.  And  when  he 
lifted  her  to  his  bosom,  she  threw  her  arms  around  his 
neck  and  laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  murmuring: 

"I  love  oo!" 

"I  wonder  if  she  remembers  me,  ever  so  little?"  asked 
Sam  of  the  circumambient  air. 

It  could  not  tell  him.  And  neither  could  I.  The  sub- 
ject of  memory  in  a  little  child  is  a  very  occult  one. 

"Go  see  mammy  now?"  said  little  Musette. 

"Yes,  darling.  Go  see  mammy  now,"  answered  the 
boy. 

Sam,  with  the  child  in  his  arms,  moved  on,  following 
the  organ-grinder  with  the  monkey.  They  went  on 
some  distance  without  stopping.  Then  the  organ- 
grinder  stopped  before  an  old  tenement  house,  with  an 
underground  drinking  cellar,  and  said: 

"Here  vas  vere  the  crowd  left  her,  and  I  began  to  look 
after  her.  She'd  been  a  following  of  me  long  afore 
that,  I  know.  And  now  I  come  to  think  on 't,  I  fust  no- 
ticed of  her  down  by  the  Prince's  F-eathers.'  Yer  know 
the  'Prince's  Feathers?' " 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  Sam. 

"Veil,  it's  a  hale  'ouse  down  nigh  the  fut  of  Ship 
street.  There's  vere  I  first  took  notice  on  'er,  though  in 
course  she  might  ha'  been  a  following  of  me  long  alore 
that,  too.  Bless  yer,  such  a  lot  o'  kids  was  at  my  heels, 
how  could  I  tell?" 

"Where  is  the  'Prince's  Feathers?'  "  inquired  Sam. 


Little  Musette. 


179 


"Over  yonder  way.  Fut  o'  Ship  street.  Come,  ve'll 
go  there.    It's  a  good  piece." 

The  party  soon  arrived  at  the  Prince's  Feathers. 

Mollie  had  hunted  wildly  for  the  child  until  she 
swooned  with  terror  and  exhaustion.  She  was  then 
taken  home  and  put  to  bed,  and  had  just  risen  to  re- 
sume her  search,  when  the  landlady  came  running  up  the 
stairs,  calling  out: 

''Mollie!  Mollie!  the  child  is  found.  A  horgan-grinder 
and  a  sailor-boy  have  brought  Jcr  home." 

With  a  cry  of  joy  Mollie  fled  past  the  landlady  down 
to  the  bar,  outside  of  which  stood  the  organ-grinder,  the 
monkey,  the  sailor-boy  and  the  child. 

"Mammy!"  cried  little  Musette,  running  toward  her 
with  outstretched  arms. 

"Oh,  my  darling!  my  darling!  my  angel!  have  I  got 
you  again!  Oh,  thank  Heaven!  Thank  Heaven!" 
cried  Mollie,  distracted  with  joy,  as  she  caught  the  child 
to  her  bosom  and  covered  her  with  caresses  and  flooded 
her  with  tears. 

"I  love  00 — I  love  00,"  said  little  Musette,  patting 
Mollie's  cheeks  soothingly,  for  she  seemed  in  doubt 
whether  her  foster-mother  were  really  rejoicing  or  griev- 
ing. 

"Oh,  my  love!  my  pet!  my  sweet,  sweet  child!  I  will 
never  let  you  out  of  my  sight  again!"  cried  Mollie,  re- 
newing her  caresses.  She  saw  nothing  but  the  child. 
The  organ-grinder  and  the  sailor-boy  stood  unnoticed. 

"I  think,  Mollie,  lass,  yer'd  do  well  to  say  a  vord  of 
thanks  to  them  as  found  the  kid,  and  came  out  of  their 
vay  to  fetch  her  'ome  to  you,"  suggested  the  landlord. 

"Oh,  yes!  Thank  you!  thank  you  very  much!  I 
shall  never  forget  your  kindness!  Here,  here,  take  this! 
give  them  this!"  she  said,  as,  without  looking  at  the  old 
man  or  boy,  she  handed  a  couple  of  half-crowns  to  the 
landlord,  who  immediately  offered  one  to  the  sailor-boy. 

"Give  'em  both  to  the  old  man,"  said  Sam,  shortly. 

And  the  landlord  put  both  pieces  in  old  Barnaby's  hand, 
who  at  once  left  the  house. 

Meantime,  Mollie,  sitting  in  the  big  armchair,  contin- 
ued to  rock  the  child  backward  and  forward,  weeping 
and  rejoicing  over  her,  while  customers  were  coming  in: 


Little  Musette. 


the  bar,  Sam  Seaforth  stood  there  staring  at  the  woman, 
but  still  unnoticed. 

"Mollie,  lass,"  whispered  the  landlord,  "don't  yer  see  as 
yer  a-making  a  show  of  yerself  ?  Hadn't  yer  better  take 
the  babby  in  the  missus'  room  till  yer've  done  crying  over 
her?" 

"Oh,  yes!  I  wasn't  minding!"  said  Mollie,  rising  to 
leave  the  barroom. 

"And  what  are  you  waiting  for,  my  lad  ?"  inquired  the 
landlord,  not  unkindly,  of  Sam. 

"I — I  want  to  speak  ito  that  young  woman,"  said  the 
boy,  who  had  been  standing  still,  staring  with  amazement 
at  Mollie. 

"Well !  there  she  goes !  follow  her,"  said  Mr.  Corbin. 

Sam  stepped  after  Mollie  into  the  landlady's  back  par- 
lor, which  was  at  this  moment  unoccupied. 

Mollie  sat  down  on  a  low  chair  and  took  the  child  on 
her  lap. 

Sam  Seaforth  went  and  stood  before  her,  and  said  r 

"Mrs.  Morris,  don't  you  know  me  ?" 

Mollie  started  violently  at  the  sound  of  the  familiar 
voice,  looked  up,  and  turned  deathly  pale,  as  she  faintly 
exclaimed : 

"Sam  Seaforth!    Great  Heaven!" 

"Why,  what's  the  matter,  Mollie?  What  are  you 
frightened  of?  One  would  think  you'd  seen  my  ghost 
instead  of  me,"  said  the  boy. 

"I — I  didn't  expect  to  see  you  here,"  faltered  Mollie. 

"I  reckon  you  expected  to  see  me  about  as  much  as  I 
expected  to  see  you,  or  little  Musette  either.  Lord !  I  was 
so  knocked  over  when  I  saw  the  child  with  the  old  organ- 
grinder  that  I  did  not  know  whether  I  was  asleep  or 
awake.   Now,  I  want  to  know  where  are  they  all  ?" 

"Where  are  who?"  faltered  Mollie,  still  staring  at  him. 

"All  of  them — mother  and  stepfather,  and  Musette's 
mother." 

"Oh,  they  are — they  are — they  are  "  stammered 

Mollie.  And  then,  without  finishing  her  sentence,  she  sud- 
denly inquired: 

"Where  did  you  come  from?  How  came  you  here, 
Sam?" 

"Oh,  you  know  I  went  to  sea,  didn't  you?  Well,  I  came 
r 


Little  Musette.  181 


over  here  to  Liverpool,  and  then  I  shipped  for  the  Pacific. 
I  was  gone  two  years.  Ship  just  got  in  port  and  paid  off 
her  hands  this  morning.  That's  the  way  I'm  here.  But 
how  came  you  here  ?  And  where  are  all  the  others  ?  Are 
they  all  here?" 

By  this  time  Mollie  had  made  up  a  story  to  tell ;  so  she 
shook  her  head  solemnly,  and  said : 

"Oh,  Sam,  Sam,  it  is  awful !" 

"What  is  awful?  Is  anybody  dead?  Was  it  a  fire,  or 
a  shipwreck,  or  a  collision,  or  what  ?"  demanded  the  boy, 
in  alarm. 

"No,  nothing  of  all  that.  And  nobody's  dead.  But  it 
was  awful,  the  way  they  all  treated  this  poor,  dear,  inno- 
cent lamb,  who  would  have  been  sent  to  the  Foundling 
if  it  hadn't  been  for  poor  me,  Sam,"  said  Mollie. 

"Who  treated  her  ?  What  are  you  talking  about,  Mrs. 
Morris  ?  Why,  they  all  seemed  to  dote  on  little  Musette l" 
exclaimed  the  boy,  reddening. 

"Oh,  yes,  'seemed/  and  that  was  all,  First  her  mother 
went  and  got  married  to  a  proud,  jealous  gentleman,  of 
the  name  of  Carew.  And  she  was  afraid  or  ashamed  to 
acknowledge  her  own  child.  And  so  she  abandoned  little 
Musette." 

"But  my  mother,  my  poor,  dear  mother.  She  didn't 
desert  little  Musette?" 

"Oh,  no,  she — she  would  have  kept  the  child  and  me, 
too,  to  wait  on  it;  but  you  see,  when  no  more  money  was 
sent  for  Musette,  Mr.  Wilks  turned  ugly,  and  said  he 
wasn't  going  to  support  other  people's  brats,  and  a  woman 
to  wait  on  'em  besides." 

"I'd  like  to  wring  his  neck  for  him !  I'll  do  it  some  of 
these  days  yet !   Mind  if  I  don't !   Go  on,  Mollie." 

"Well,  he  led  poor  Mrs.  Wilks  such  a  life,  what  with 
growling  about  the  expense  of  keeping  the  child,  and 
keeping  the  nurse,  and  so  on,  the  upshot  of  it  was  I  had 
to  leave  and  take  the  child  with  me.  I  had  no  home  in 
New  York,  and  so  I  brought  her  over  here  to  my  old 
home.  And  here  we  are.  Now,  Sam,  look  here.  I  have 
adopted  this  child  for  my  own.  And  I  want  you  'to  keep 
my  secret,  and  never  let  on  to  any  of  the  people  here  but 
what  she  is  my  child.  I  don't  want  anybody  to  think  she 
is  a  poor,  little,  forsaken  child,  as  her  mother  is  ashamed 


Little  Musette. 


to  own.  Will  you  keep  my  secret,  Sam?  I  don't  want 
anybody  to  think  as  little  Musette  is  a  poor  " 

"Yes,  of  course  I'll  keep  the  secret,  Mollie.  Pd  do 
anything  for  Musette,  even  to  going  back  home  for  her. 
Yes,  Mollie,  I  will  go  right  back  in  the  next  steamer.  I 
have  got  money,  and  I'll  take  a  steerage  passage,  and  I'll 
go  right  back  home,  and  try  to  find  out  Musette's  mother, 
for  I  know  she  has  not  deserted  the  child.  She  had  no 
reason  to  be  ashamed  of  her.  I  know  she  hadn't!"  ex- 
claimed the  boy,  reddening  up  like  his  grandfather,  the 
Old  Harry,  in  the  eagerness  of  his  defense.  "I  could  lay 
my  life  she  hadn't !  And  I'll  go  right  over  to  the  United 
States  and  " 

"Sam  !  Sam  !  you'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind !  Listen  to 
me.  As  soon  as  you  left  home,  your  stepfather  advertised 
you,  by  name,  in  all  the  papers,  and  offered  fifty  dollars 
reward  for  your  apprehension,  just  as  if  you  had  been  a 
runaway  negro.  And  he  said,  when  you  were  caught,  you 
should  be  put  in  the  House  of  Refuge  for  a  year  to  teach 
you  better.  Just  think  of  it,"  said  Mollie,  solemnly. 

"Advertised  me  like  a  thief,  did  he  ?  Would  put  me  in 
the  House  of  Refuge,  among  the  juvenile  pickpockets, 
would  he?  Oh-h-h !  won't  I  settle  with  him  when  I  meet 
him,  that's  all !"  exclaimed  the  boy,  panting  with  excite- 
ment. 

"Yes,  Sam,  but  you'll  have  to  wait  until  you  are  twenty- 
one  to  do  that.  You  are  under  age,  Sam,  and  your  mother 
and  your  stepfather  can  do  all  he  has  threatened  to  do,  if 
they  catch  you.  If  you  wish  to  be  free,  you  will  have  to 
stay  over  this  side  of  the  pond,  and  keep  shady,  too.  Stay 
here  and  help  to  'take  care  of  little  Musette,  Sam.  I  dare 
say  as  our  landlord  can  find  something  for  you  to  do  about 
the  house,"  said  Mollie,  who  was  frightened  at  the  very 
thought  of  the  boy's  return  to  New  York  with  her  secret 
in  his  possession. 

"Will  you  stay  here  with  me,  Sam  ?"  she  inquired,  see- 
ing that  he  did  not  answer. 

"I  don't  know.  All  this  has  come  so  suddenly  on  a  fel- 
low. But,  Mollie,  I  know  one  thing.  You  oughtn't  to 
keep  that  child  at  a  public-house.  You  told  me  you  had 
saved  money.    How  much  money  have  you  got?" 

"A  matter  of  a  hundred  pounds,"  answered  the  woman. 


Little  Musette. 


"And  I  have  got  nearly  fifty  pounds,  and  you  are  wel- 
come to  it,  if  you  will  do  what  I  propose/' 
"And  what  will  that  be?" 

"Well,  you  see,  I  feel  uneasy  here;  first,  on  little  Mu- 
sette's account ;  next,  on  my  own.  This  is  a  dreadful 
place  to  bring  up  a  little  lady  in.  She  will  be  hearing  all 
sorts  of  bad  language  and  seeing  all  sorts  of  improper 
things.  And  it  is  dangerous  for  me ;  for  you  may  depend 
old  Wilks  got  a  clew  to  me  and  found  out  about  me  ship- 
ping aboard  the  Honolulu  for  the  Pacific  Ocean.  And 
he'll  remember  when  she  be  due  on  her  return,  and  he'll 
keep  a  watch  out,  and  when  he  hears  the  ship  is  in  port 
he'll  come  or  send  for  me.  If  it  was  only  a  question  be- 
tween him  and  me,  I  wouldn't  mind.  I'd  settle  him.  But 
he  has  got  the  law  on  his  side.  I  will  not  resist  the  law, 
though  I  will  not  submit  to  him.  So  I  mean  to  go  and 
lose  myself  in  London  until  I  can  get  a  good  berth  in  an 
East  Indiaman,  or  something.  And  before  I  go  to  sea 
again  I  will  write  a  letter  to  poor,  dear  mother,  to  set  her 
mind  at  ease,  and  give  it  to  you  to  post  after  I  am 
off." 

"Do,  Sam.  And  I'll  post  it,"  said  Mollie,  who  had  no 
intention  of  doing  anything  of  the  sort,  but  rather  of  sup- 
pressing the  letter  altogether.  "And  now,  Sam,"  she  con- 
tinued, "you  told  me  " 

"That  I  would  give  you  all  my  savings  to  help  to  pro- 
vide for  the  little  lady,  if  you  would  do  what  I  propose. 
Well,  it  is  this — that  you  take  your  money  and  mine  and 
go  up  to  London,  and  take  a  house  and  furnish  it,  and  let 
lodgings  to  respectable  tenants ;  that  is  a  quiet,  decent 
way  for  a  poor  woman  to  invest  her  little  money  and  get 
an  honest  living." 

"I — I  like  the  plan,  Sam.  If  I  wasn't  afraid  of  losing 
all  mv  monev,  I'd  do  it.  However,  as  you  said  yourself, 
I'll  think  of  it." 

This  ended  the  subject  for  the  time  being. 

And  Mollie  "thought  of  it"  to  such  practical  purpose, 
that  she  gave  warning  to  her  employers,  and  within  a 
month's  time  she  was  settled  in  London.  She  had  a  me- 
dium-sized, plainly-furnished  house  in  Wellington  street, 
Strand,  with  a  neatly-written  placard  of  "Apartments  to 
Let"  on  the  door. 


Little  Musette. 


Sam  Seaforth  got  a  berth  in  an  East  Indiaman,  bound 
for  Calcutta,  and  shipped  himself  for  the  voyage,  almost 
immediately  after  Mollie  took  possession  of  her  new 
home. 

The  boy  wrote  a  long,  loving  letter  to  his  mother,  telling 
her  how  well  he  was  in  body  and  mind ;  how  fortunate  he 
had  been  in  meeting  Mollie  Morris  and  little  Musette  in 
Liverpool ;  how  well  and  thriving  they  were ;  how  much 
he  loved  his  mother,  and  longed  to  be  with  her ;  and  how 
he  should  certainly  come  to  live  with  her  as  soon  as  he 
should  be  of  age  and  independent  of  Mr.  Wilks.  And  he 
begged  her  not  to  fret  either  about  him  or  little  Musette, 
although  but  for  Mr.  Wilks  they  never  would  have  been 
separated  from  her.  He  intrusted  this  letter  to  Mollie, 
and  begged  her  to  mail  it  the  day  after  his  ship  shonld 
have  sailed. 

Mollie  read  the  letter  he  had  written  to  his  mother,  and 
then,  not  without  feelings  of  remorse,  she  put  it  into  the 
jfire. 

"Oh,  how  I  sin  and  how  I  suffer  for  the  sake  of  keeping 
you,  little  Musette !"  she  sighed,  as  <she  lifted  the  child  to 
her  lap. 

"I  love  you/'  said  Musette,  putting  her  hands  each 
side  her  nurse's  face,  and  putting  up  her  plump  lips  to  kiss 
away  the  tears. 

iSollie  Morris  did  not  prosper  in  her  lodging-house. 
She  had  no  business  talent  whatever. 

It  was  three  -months  before  she  got  a  lodger,  who 
stayed  with  her  two  months,  and  went  away  without  hav- 
ing paid  her  a  penny. 

Another  month  passed  away  without  a  lodger.  She 
began  to  get  into  debt,  wherever  she  could  get  credit,  and 
she  ran  bills  as  long  as  that  credit  lasted. 

Then  one  by  one  her  best  articles  of  furniture  went  to 
auction,  and  was  sold  at  a  sacrifice  to  procure  the  daily 
necessaries  of  life. 

At  last,  late  in  November,  when  little  Musette  was 
about  five  years  old,  the  landlord,  seeing  the  furniture  go 
bit  by  bit,  got  alarmed  for  the  two  quarters'  rent  due  him, 
and  levied  on  all  her  personal  effects  that  the  law  would 
allow  him  to  take  for  debt.  The  butcher,  the  baker,  and 
the  grocer  followed  suit.   And  so  it  happened  that  on 


Little  Musette. 


185 


little  Musett's  birthday  Mollie  Morris  found  herself  and 
her  child  homeless  and  penniless  in  the  street. 

"Don't  cry,  mammy,  my  dear  mammy !  I  love  you.  I 
do  love  you,"  said  little  Musette,  with  the  most  tender 
compassion  in  every  tone,  as  if  she  thought  indeed  that 
"love  was  the  greatest  good  in  the  world,"  and  a  balm 
for  every  wound. 

Mollie  had  one  precious  little  piece  of  property  that 
had  escaped  the  hands  of  the  bailiffs,  and  now  stood  a 
temporary  bar  between  her  and  starvation — it  was  the 
little  gold  watch  and  chain  that  had  been  given  her  by 
Musa. 

Through  all  her  troubles  Mollie  had  kept  this.  Lately 
she  had  kept  it  concealed  for  fear  of  the  bailiffs. 

Now  she  knew  the  time  had  come  when  she  must  sell 
or  pawn  it  to  procure  food  and  lodging  for  herself  and 
child  that  night. 

She  bent  her  steps  first  to  a  pawnbroker's  shop,  where, 
after  some  suspicious  delay  on  the  part  of  the  money- 
lender, she  succeeded  in  getting  an  advance  of  two 
pounds  on  a  watch  and  chain  worth  twenty. 

With  this  money  in  her  pocket  she  went  to  a  narrow, 
crowded  street,  where  she  knew  cheap  lodgings  were  to 
be  let.  And  by  paying  a  week's  rent  in  advance,  she  pro- 
cured a  small,  poorly-furnished  room,  on  the  second 
floor,  directly  over  a  rag  and  bottle  shop. 

Here  the  struggle  for  life  grew  harder  than  it  ever  had 
been  before.  Mollie  tried  to  get  work,  but  every  avenue 
of  labor  seemed  crowded  to  suffocation  in  that  great 
city,  so  that,  seek  as  diligently  as  she  might,  Mollie  could 
get  but  very  little. 

During  the  long  winter  that  followed,  piece  after  piece 
of  her  clothing  that  had  been  saved  from  the  household 
wreck,  was  pawned  or  sold  to  procure  food  or  fuel. 

In  March  Mollie  fell  ill.  Hunger,  cold,  disappoint- 
ment and  despair  had  done  their  work  upon  her  and  laid 
her  low. 

And  then  it  was  beautiful  and  piteous  to  see  how  the 
little  child  of  about  five  and  a  half  years  old,  tried  to  be 
helpful ;  how  she  went  to  the  street  and  gathered  waste- 
paper,  rags,  sticks,  chips,  and  brought  them  to  the  cold 
grate  and  tried  to  make  a  fire;  how  she  took  the  Hub 


186 


Little  Musette. 


stumpy  straw  broom  and  tried  to  sweep  the  hearth ;  and 
how  she  brought  tin  cups  of  cold  water  from  the  pump 
— pumped  for  her  by  a  street  boy — and  how  she  wet  cot- 
ton rags  and  tried  to  wash  the  sick  woman's  face  and 
hands,  murmuring  all  the  while: 

"Don't  cry,  mammy.  I  love  you.  Oh,  I  do  love  you 
so  much !" 

But  Mollie  got  worse.  Little  Musette  grew  graver. 
Her  brain  was  very  busy  with  devices  to  help  her  "dear 
ma'romy." 

She  noticed  that  some  little  'boys  and  girls  swept  cross- 
ings, and  picked  up  pennies  that  way.  And  she  knew 
that  pennies  would  buy  bread  and  tea  and  sugar  for 
"poor  mammy." 

So  one  April  day,  taking  counsel  only  of  her  own  lov- 
ing heart,  little  Musette,  while  her  mammy  was  sleeping, 
took  the  stumpy  straw  broom  with  which  she  had  so 
often  tried  to  sweep  her  own  hearth,  and  trailing  it 
after  her  she  went  downstairs  and  out  of  the  house  to — 
of  all  things  in  the  world — to  sweep  a  crossing  to  earn 
pennies  for  her  sick  mammy. 

But  the  little  gamins  of  the  street  soon  instructed  her 
that  she  must  not  poach  upon  any  other  sweeper's  prem- 
ises.  She  must  find  a  crossing  for  herself. 

So  she  wandered  down  several  streets,  around  many 
corners,  until  she  reached  Oxford  street,  where  she  found 
an  apparently  unclaimed  crossing. 

Here  she  began  to  use  her  little  stumpy  broom  with 
much  zeal,  sweeping  diligently  ss  she  crossed  and  re- 
crossed  the  street,  and  at  every  stopping  she  held  out  her 
tiny  hand  to  foot-passengers,  as  she  had  seen  other  small 
crossing-sweepers  do. 

(Ah !  if  by  any  power  of  clairvoyance,  her  own  mother 
could  have  seen  her  then !  Her  own  mother,  who  at  the 
very  moment  was  playing  with  Musette's  beautiful, 
bright,  blue-eyed,  three-year-old  sister,  in  the  earthly 
paradise  of  Bay  Beauty !} 

Many  of  the  street  passengers  hurried  by  without  even 
seeing  the  sad  little  sweeper.  But  every  one  who  stopped 
and  met  the  pathetic  gaze  of  her  grave,  tender,  dark- 
eyes,  dropped  a  penny  in  the  little  open  palm. 

Crowds  of  vehicles  cf  every  description  were  con- 


After  Some  Years. 


is7 


stantly  whirling  up  and  dawn,  until  it  seemed  a  miracle, 
from  moment  to  moment,  that  this  tiny  toiler  in  the  tur- 
moil of  the  street  was  not  run  over  and  instantly  killed. 

At  last,  toward  the  close  of  the  day,  when  the  declining 
sun,  seen  through  a  slight  London  fog,  made  the  far  end 
of  the  street  look  like  a  gilded  sea  with  the  mist  upon  it, 
little  Musette  grew  tired,  giddy  and  confused.  Her  limbs 
failed,  her  head  swam ;  the  setting  sun  dazzled  her  eyes. 
She  wanted  to  go  home  and  go  to  sleep  on  her  mammy's 
bed. 

Poor  little  one!  she  never  doubted  but  that  she  could 
find  her  way  home  quite  easily;  in  truth,  she  never 
thought  of  a  difficulty. 

But  she  wished  to  gather  "a  heap"  of  pennies  for  her 
poor  mammy,  and  so,  with  a  dizzy  brain,  and  dazzled 
eyes,  and  tottering  limbs,  and  trembling  hands,  she  tried 
to  sweep  through  the  horrible  confusion  of  carriages  and 
horses  coming  and  going  in  ever}''  direction,  until — — 

Ah,  Heaven ! 

In  starting  to  get  out  of  the  way  of  a  heavy  van,  she 
fell  under  the  wheels  of  a  cabriolet. 

They  was  a  cry  of  horror;  a  sudden  pulling  up  of 
horses ;  a  street  commotion. 

"Is  the  child  hurt  ?"  cried  the  occupant  of  the  carriage, 
springing  to  the  ground. 

"She  is  killed,  your  grace,"  gravely  replied  the  groom, 
who  had  raised  from  the  ground  and  now  held  in  his 
arms  the  unconscious  form  of  little  Musette. 

Was  the  beautiful  little  body  dead?  Had  the  loving 
little  spirit  passed  out  ?    If  so,  it  was  well  for  her. 

Little  Musette  was  already  an  angel  ripe  for  inmost 
heaven. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

AFTER    SOME  YEARS. 

We  must  now  return  to  the  Chesapeake  and  to  the 
Carews. 

Some  events  had  happened  in  that  circle,  which,  while 
they  were  very  significant  to  their  subjects,  were  of  so 


188  After  Some  Years. 


little  importance  to  our  story  that  they  may  be  passed 
over  very  briefly. 

First,  then,  the  two  old  veterans,  Commodore  Howard 
and  Colonel  Carew,  were  gathered  to  their  fathers. 

Old  Harry  had  previously  made  a  will  in  favor  of 
his  grandson,  Samuel  Carew,  commonly  called  Sam  Sea- 
forth,  and  appointed  Mr.  Lyttleton  Locke  and  Mr.  August 
Carew  executors.  He  had  also  provided  handsomely  for 
Kate,  who,  in  addition  to  her  legal  "thirds,"  had  a  life 
interest  in  the  old  homestead  at  Pirate's  Peak. 

It  was  in  the  autumn  succeeding  the  departure  of  the 
two  old  men,  that  August  Carew  turned  his  attention 
to  politics. 

He  served  two  years  in  the  legislature  of  his  native 
State,  and  was  then  elected  a  representative  of  his  dis- 
trict in  Congress. 

And  Musa,  with  her  fair  little  daughter  Ethelinde, 
accompanied  her  husband  to  Washington  at  the  meet- 
ing of  Congress,  and,  for  the  first  time  in  five  years,  oc- 
cupied her  renovated  city  palace  on  Vermont  avenue 
and  resumed  her  role  as  a  leader  of  fashion. 

Musa,  as  the  wife  of  a  rising  statesman,  was  even 
more  courted,  feted,  and  idolized  than  she  had  ever 
been  before  as  a  maiden,  a  beauty,  and  an  heiress.  The 
slight  cloud  that  had  lowered  over  her  girlhood  had 
passed  away,  leaving  her  prospects  more  brilliant  than 
before. 

Young,  beautiful,  wealthy;  the  beloved  wife  of  a  hand- 
some, accomplished,  and  distinguished  man;  the  adored 
mother  of  the  fairest  child  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  she 
was  the  envy  as  well  as  the  admiration  of  all  who  knew 
her. 

'But  was  Musa  happy?   Ah,  no! 

The  memory  of  her  lost  child  was  ever  present  with 
her.  The  image  of  her  meek-eyed  darling  was  ever 
before  her.  She  believed  little  Musette  to  be  safe  in 
heaven,  but  she  could  scarcely  realize  it  as  a  truth. 

There  were  times  when  her  longing  to  clasp  the  lost 
little  one  to  her  famishing  heart  became  so  intolerable 
in  its  passion  and  intensity  that  she  panted  to  get  awap 
from  the  earth  and  seek  that  little  Musette  in  the  vast 
Unknown  beyond;  times  when  she  lay  upon  her  Ded  at 


After  Some  Years.  189 


night  with  closed  eyes,  and  folded  hands,  and  yearning 
soul,  invoking  the  spirit  of  the  child  to  come,  if  it  were 
possible  to  do  so,  and  comfort  her;  and  when  she  prayed 
to  the  Lord,  if  it  were  His  will,  so  to  send  her  darling 
to  her. 

There  were  seasons  in  which  she  grew  impatient  of 
her  own  youth,  and  of  the  long  years  of  earthly  life 
that  seemed  to  stretch  far  away  into  the  future,  before 
she  could  grow  old  and  pass  away  to  that  "mansion  not 
made  with  hands,  eternal  in  the  heavens,"  where  she 
should  find  again  and  clasp  to  her  yearning  heart  the 
form  of  her  meek-eyed  child. 

And  yet  she  loved  her  friends  and  companions  of  the 
earth,  and  she  adored  her  husband  and  their  little  girl, 
Ethelinde.  Nor  was  she  indifferent  to  the  brilliant  po- 
sition she  occupied  in  society,  nor  to  the  splendid  polit- 
ical prospects  of  her  husband  as  a  popular  and  dis- 
tinguished statesman. 

Only — she  was  like  the  shepherd  in  the  Bible  story, 
who  losing  one  lamb,  left  the  flock  in  the  wilderness, 
and  'went  sorrowing  after  that  which  was  lost.  So  at 
times  her  spirit  left  all  her  possessions  behind,  and  went 
grieving,  yearning  and  searching  after  the  lamb  that 
was  lost. 

She  never  spoke  of  the  bitterness  of  her  incurable 
grief  to  any  one.  She  did  not  wish  to  overshadow  any 
other  life  with  the  reflection  of  her  own  sorrow.  Yet, 
still  it  was  often  perceptible  to  those  who  loved  her. 

Sometimes  a  wild  hope  passed  through  the  bereaved 
mother's  heart.  Was  it  not  possible  that  little  Musette 
might  have  been  saved  from  the  shipwreck?  Musa  had 
heard  and  read  of  some  almost  miraculous  rescues  of 
shipwrecked  passengers. 

Who  could  positively  say  that  little  Musette  might 
not  have  been  picked  up  by  some  ship  bound  to  a  distant 
port,  and  that  she  might  not  be  some  day  heard  of? 

But  this  hope  was  so  wild,  so  improbable,  and  indeed 
so  terrifying,  that  Musa  would  not  entertain  it. 

It  was  so  much  more  distressing  to  think  of  the  gen- 
tle child  adrift  in  this  rough  world  than  to  think  of 
her  safe  in  heaven. 

Nevertheless,  the  thought  of  her  possible  rescue  and 


190  After  Some  Years, 


continued  existence  would  come  again  and  again,  though 
it  was  never  welcomed. 

Musa  had  another  topic  of  interest  and  speculation, 
Samuel  Harold  Carew,  the  fugitive  heir  of  Pirate's  Peak. 

Mr.  Lyttleton  Locke  and  Mr.  August  Carew,  as  joint 
executors  of  Colonel  Carew's  will,  had  never  ceased  in 
their  efforts  to  discover  the  young  adventurer.  They 
had  kept  a  good  lookout  for  the  return  of  the  Honolulu 
from  the  Pacific,  and  had  sent  a  man  over  in  search 
of  the  young  sailor. 

But  the  messenger  only  arrived  in  time  to  trace  Sam 
to  London,  and  to  learn  there  that  he  had  shipped  again, 
and  this  time  on  board  of  the  East  Indiaman  Bengal, 
bound  for  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope  and  Calcutta. 

That  was  the  last  news  that  had  been  received  of  Sam 
for  the  last  three  years. 

They  were  all  now  watching  the  shipping  news  in  the 
English  papers  for  intelligence  of  the  return  of  the  Ben- 
gal,  intending  to  send  another  messenger  to  meet  and 
intercept  the  absconding  young  Fortunatus. 

It  wras  near  the  close  of  this  season  in  Washington 
that  Musa  received  a  piece  of  news  that  filled  her  sad 
heart  with  joy.  It  was  the  announcement  of  the  ap- 
proaching marriage  of  the  young  Duke  of  Montcalla  to 
his  Welsh  cousin,  the  Lady  Gwendolyn  Tremontane. 

She  remembered  the  name  of  her  old  rival,  whom 
the  parents  of  the  young  Earl  of  Cressy  wished  him 
to  marry  upon  mere  family  and  financial  grounds,  and 
whose  face  the  proposed  bridegroom  declared  that  he 
had  never  once  beheld.  And  she  wondered  now  what 
that  face,  which  had  made  Bertie  forget  her  own,  was 
like. 

With  smiles  and  tears  she  carried  the  English  pa- 
pers m  which  she  had  read  the  news  to  her  husband's 
study  and  showed  it  to  him,  saying: 

"I  am  so  glad !  For  I  know  it  is  a  love  match.  Bertie 
would  never  desecrate  marriage  by  entering  it  from 
any  other  motive. " 

August  laughed,  and  kissed  and  congratulated  her,  on 
behalf  of  her  young  friend. 

Mr.  Carew's  political  advancement  v/as  very  rapid  for 
so  young  a  man.   A  new  minister  was  to  be  dispatched 


After  Some  Years.  191 


to  the  Court  of  St.  James,  and  when  the  good  judgment 

of  the  Administration  selected  General  to  fill  that 

responsible  post,  Mr.  Carew  was  appointed  as  his  secre- 
tary of  legation. 

August  resigned  his  seat  in  the  House  of  Representa- 
tives and  prepared  for  his  voyage  to  Europe;  and,  in  the 
last  week  of  April,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carew,  with  only  two 
servants — Pendragon  and  Cassy — took  leave  of  their 
friends,  and  went  on  to  New  York,  preparatory  to  their 
voyage  to  Europe. 

While  in  the  city,  August  and  Musa  took  time  to 
run  up  to  Inwood,  and  see  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wilks. 

They  found  the  worthy  couple  well  and  moderately 
prosperous.  Mr.  Wilks  was  earning  a  modest  but  suf- 
ficient income  by  teaching  a  school.  Maggie  was  ra- 
diant with  delight  at  a  letter  that  she  had  just  received 
from  her  long-albsent  son,  who  had  got  back  to  Liver- 
pool from  his  voyage  to  the  Antipodes. 

"To  think,  dear  ma'am,  as  this  is  the  first  letter  I  have 
received  from  him  since  the  one  he  wrote  me  when  he 
first  went  away,  which  was  five  years  ago  last  January. 
And  this  letter  is  as  short  as  anything.  He  just  says  he 
has  landed  at  Liverpool,  and  is  well,  and  how  he  is  going 
to  London  to  see  'them,'  and  then  he'll  tell  me  how 
'they'  are.  Now,  who  he  means,  ma'am,  I  can't  tell  for 
the  life  of  me.  He  writes  just  like  a  careless  boy,"  said 
Maggie,  with  a  puzzled  air. 

"Have  you  answered  his  letter,  Maggie?"  inquired 
Mrs.  Carew. 

"Oh,  yes,  dear  ma'am,  and  I  have  told  him  about  his 
poor  dear  grandfather's  death."  (Maggie  had  changed 
her  tone  in  speaking  of  the  Old  Harry  now.)  "And  I 
have  explained  all  about  the  fortune  left  him,  and  begged 
of  him  to  come  home.  But  I  doubt  he'll  come,  ma'am, 
And  that  makes  me  so  glad  you  and  Mr.  Carew  are 
going  to  London.    Perhaps  you  will  see  him." 

"We  shall  make  it  a  point  to  do  so,"  said  Mr.  Carew. 
"You  are  aware  that  I  am  his  guardian  by  his  grand- 
father's will." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know  you  are,  sir,  and  very  kind  of  you, 
too.  And,  moreover,  the  boy  sets  so  much  store  by 
M's.  Carew  that  if  she  speaks  to  him,  he  will  do  what- 


192  After  Some  Years. 


ever  she  tells  him  to,  even  to  coming  back  home,"  re- 
plied Maggie. 

The  next  day  the  embassy  sailed  from  New  York  in 
the  government  steamship  Messenger,  which,  after  a 
very  pleasant  voyage  of  nine  days,  anchored  safely  in  the 
Mersey. 

The  embassy  spent  but  one  day  in  Liverpool,  and 
then  proceeded  to  London,  where  they  arrived  on  the 
evening  of  the  twelfth  of  May,  in  the  very  height  of  the 
London  fashionable  season. 

One  of  the  first  acts  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carew  was  to  go 
down  to  the  East  India  docks  and  inquire  for  the  Ben- 
gal. They  were  informed  that  the  ship  was  at  Graves- 
end.  And  to  Gravesend  they  immediatelv  went.  The 
Bengal  lay  at  anchor  a  short  distance  from  the  shore, 
and  Mr.  Carew  hired  a  rowboat  to  take  himself  and 
wife  out  to  her. 

They  were  received  on  board  by  the  third  mate.  Of 
this  man  Mr.  Carew  inquired  for  Samuel  Seaforth,  add- 
ing at  the  same  time  that  he  himself  was  the  boy's  gua^- 
ian.   "Is  the  lad  on  board  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Carew. 

"Yes,  sir,  he  is  on  board.  Coxswain !  send  young  Sea- 
forth forward!"  said  the  mate,  raising  his  voice. 

"Ay,  ay,  sir!"  answered  the  coxswain,  going  aft. 

"The  lad's  time  is  out,  sir.  And  it  is  by  mere  chance 
he  is  here  to-day.  After  his  kit,  or  something,"  the 
mate  explained,  as  Sam  Seaforth  was  seen  approaching. 

He  was  now  a  very  handsome  lad,  about  sixteen  years 
old,  and  tall  for  his  age,  with  a  fine,  frank  face,  lighted  up 
by  a  pair  of  bright  black  eyes,  and  shaded  by  silky,  curling 
black  hair.  As  he  came  up  he  looked  enough  like  Musa 
to  be  her  younger  brother.  He  was  clothed  in  the  dress 
of  a  common  seaman,  and  only  distinguishable  from 
others  by  the  dainty  cleanliness  of  his  person  and  attire. 

"Mrs.  White !"  exclaimed  the  lad,  in  a  tone  of  delight, 
as  he  instantly  recognized  Musa,  and  forgot  for  the  mo- 
ment that  he  had  heard  of  her  second  marriage.  "Oh,  I 
am  so  glad  to  see  you!" 

"Mrs.  Carew,  my  dear  boy,"  said  Musa,  gently,  as  she 
gave  him  her  hand,  which  he  shook  heartily. 

"Oh,  pray  excuse  me,  ma'am.  I  did  hear,  but  I  for- 
got," said  the  boy,  blushing  with  confusion. 


After  Some  Years.  193 


"This  is  my  husband,  Mr.  August  Carew/'  continued 
Musa. 

The  boy  bowed  very  respectfully.  But  August  held 
out  his  hand,  saying: 

"We  must  be  friends,  blaster  Carew.  We  are  related. 
I  suppose  you  know  that  your  name  is  Carew?" 

"Oh,  yes,  sir,  I  know  it;  but  I  had  got  to  be  called 
after  my  first  stepfather's  name  somehow,  and  that  name 
always  stuck  to  me.  I  had  no  wish  to  change  it.  Mr. 
Seaforth  was  the  only  father  I  ever  knew,  and  neither 
my  poor  mother  nor  myself  ever  owed  much  to  the  Ca- 
rews,"  frankly  replied  Sam. 

"I  know  it,  my  boy.  But  that  is  all  changed  now.  I 
have  a  great  deal  to  tell  you.  But  I  cannot  enter  upon 
the  subject  here.  I  am  told  that  your  time  is  out  on 
board  this  ship?" 

''Yes,  sir.  I  only  came  here  this  morning  to  see  an 
old  comrade/' 

"And  you  are  now  at  liberty  to  go?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Then  I  wish  you  to  accompany  me  to  London  at 
once." 

"I  want  to  ask  you  a  question  first,  sir.  You  see,  sir, 
this  meeting  has  come  upon  me  like  a  thunderclap.  I 
thought,  when  I  was  sent  for,  that  the  mate  wanted  me 
himself.  Then,  when  I  saw  Mrs.  Carew,  I  was  so  de- 
lighted that  I  forgot  my  danger  " 

"  'Danger,'  my  young  friend?"  echoed  Mr.  Carew. 

"Yes,  sir — danger  of  'being  arrested  and  taken  back  to 
the  hateful  despotism  of  my  second  stepfather.  And  the 
question  I  wished  to  ask  is  this,  sir — whether  it  is  your 
intention  to  take  me  back?  Because,  sir — I  do  not  wish 
to  be  rude — but  I  won't  go  back.  I'll  die  first!"  said 
Sam,  crimsoning. 

"It  is  certainly  not  my  intention  to  take  you  back,  or 
rather  to  send  you  back  against  your  will,  my  boy.  You 
shall  hear  all  that  I  have  to  say,  and  then  decide  for 
yourself.  -  Will  you  come  up  to  London  with  me  now?" 

"Yes,  sir.  I  was  going  up  to  London  any  way,"  an- 
swered Sam.  And  then  he  looked  at  Musa  and  sud- 
denly became  very  grave. 

In  the  first  surprise  and  excitement  of  meeting  her, 


194  After  Some  Years. 

■i 

and  in  the  subsequent  distrust  and  anxiety  in  regard  to 
Mr.  Carew' s  intentions  toward  himself,  the  boy  had  for- 
gotten the  fate  of  little  Musette.  Now  he  remembered 
it,  and  could  scarcely  keep  the  tears  from  his  eyes. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Sam?"  inquired  the  lady. 

"Oh,  nothing,  ma'am.  I  am  ready  to  go  with  you 
now,"  answered  the  boy. 

"I  saw  your  mother  the  day  before  we  sailed  from  New 
York#  She  was  quite  well.  She  had  got  your  letter  a'nd 
had  answered  it,"  said  Musa. 

"Had  she,  ma'am?  I  haven't  got  the  answer  yet.  I 
s'pose  I  shall  soon,  though.  I  am  glad  mother  is  well," 
he  said,  still  looking  at  Musa  gravely  and  sadly. 

As  the  boat  was  now  waiting  alongside  for  them,  Mr. 
Carew  bade  the  civil  mate  good-morning  and  with  his 
party  left  the  ship. 

They  went  back  to  London  immediately.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Carew  took  Sam  with  them  to  their  hotel.  But  it 
was  not  until  they  had  had  luncheon  and  the  table  was 
cleared  away  and  the  room  closed  and  the  lady  and  gen^ 
tleman  and  boy  were  left  alone  together,  that  Mr.  Carew 
entered  upon  the  business  of  the  hour. 

"In  the  first  place,  Samuel  Carew,  you  have  made  such 
a  great  mistake  in  the  character  and  disposition  of  your 
stepfather,  and  done  him  such  cruel  injustice  that  I  can- 
not but  think  your  mind  has  been  poisoned  against  him 
by  some  other  person.  Now  to  other  matters :  Your 
grandfather,  Colonel  Harold  Carew,  died  about  three 
years  ago.   Did  you  know  that  ?" 

"No,  sir.  I  did  not  even  know  that  he  was  living  when 
I  left  home.  I  barely  knew  that  I  had  a  grandfather  who 
had  turned  my  father  out  of  doors ;  but  Whether  he  was 
living  or  dead,  I  did  not  know,  and  did  not  care.  I  sym- 
pathized with  my  father,"  said  Sam. 

"There  were  faults  on  both  sides,  my  boy,  and  plenty 
of  them.  Well,  you  will  do  justice  to  your  grandfather's 
character  when  you  hear  a  little  more  about  him  in  his 
own  neighborhood,  where  he  was  very  much  beloved  and 
honored  for  his  generosity,  notwithstanding  his  fiery 
temper  and  despotic  will.  Your  grandfather,  Master 
Carew,  has  left  you  his  whole  estate,  with  the  exception  of 
a  just  provision  for  his  widow." 


After  Some  Years.  195 


"Oh,  then  I  have  got  an  old  grandmother !"  exclaimed 
the  boy. 

"A  rather  young  step-grandmother,"  said  Mr.  Carew, 
smiling  to  think  of  "bonny  Kate"  in  such  a  relationship. 

"A  step-grandmother!  Oh,  bother!"  exclaimed  the 
lad,  in  deep  disgust  and  abhorrence.  "I  beg  your  par- 
don, sir,  but  it  is  perfectly  abominable  all  these  'steps !' — 
a  stepfather,  a  step-grandmother — oh,  lor!" 

"I  do  not  think,  Master  Carew,  that  you  need  be 
troubled. -by  these  step-relations  cf  yours,  t,  in  conjunc- 
tion with  a  worthy  Washington  lawyer,  have  been  ap- 
pointed your  guardian.  I  do  not  think  you  will  find  me  a 
very  disagreeable  one." 

"I  am  sure  not,  sir.  I  am  very  grateful  to  you  for  un- 
dertaking such  a  troublesome  trust.  And  I  am  very  glad 
you  are  not  old  Wilks.  Old  Wilks  has  nothing  to  do 
with  me  now,  sir,  has  he?" 

'The  Rev.  Mr.  Wilks  has  nothing  to  do  with  you.  But 
yGU  will  do  that  gentleman  justice  some  of  these  days, 
and  speak  of  him  with  more  respect,"  said  Mr.  Carew, 
very  gravely. 

"Oh,  sir,  but  you  would  not  say  so  if  you  knew  how 
cruelly  he  has  used  poor,  dear,  good,  little  "  Sam  sud- 
denly stopped,  bit  his  lip,  and  flushed  up  to  his  forehead. 
•  Mr.  Carew  looked  at  the  boy  keenly,  but  forbore  to 
ask  any  questions. 

"As  you  have  left  the  service,  Master  Carew,  I  think  it 
expedient  that  you  should  drop  the  uniform.  I  will  take 
the  liberty,"  he  said,  smiling  slightly,  "of  recommending 
you  to  my  tailors,  the  Messrs.  Smith,  No.  —  Regent 
street.  I  wish  you  to  take  up  your  residence  with  Mrs. 
Carew  and  myself  until  we  can  decide  upon  your  future 
course.  I  have  now  an  engagement,  and  will  leave  you 
with  Mrs.  Carew.  This  belongs  to  you,"  he  added,  hand- 
ing what  seemed  to  be  a  rather  bulky  letter  to  the  youth, 
who  looked  at  it  inquiringly,  bowed  and  slipped  it  in  his 
pocket  to  be  examined  at  some  future  opportunity. 

When  Mr.  Carew  had  left  the  room,  Musa  turned  to 
her  young  friend  and  again  inquired : 

"My  boy,  what  is  the  matter  with  you?  You  could 
have  trusted  Mr.  Carew  implicitly.   He  is  very  wise  and 


196  After  Some  Years, 


good,  You  could  have  trusted  him ;  but  you  will  trust 
me.   Tell  me  your  t-cuble  now,  Sam." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Carew !  First  answer  me  one  question,  will 
you  ?"  inquired  the  boy,  in  an  earnest  tone. 

"It  depends  upon  the  question,  Sam.  What  is  it,  my 
lad?"  kindly  asked  Musa. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Carew,  when  you  married  Mr.  Carew,  you 
did  not  forsake  little  Musette,  did  you?"  inquired  the 
boy,  in  a  Uxie  of  passionate  earnestness. 

Musa  gazed  at  him  in"  silent  astonishment  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  broke  forth : 

"I  desert  my  darling  child?  my  sad-eyed  little  angel? 
Oh,  Sam,  what  could  have  put  such  a  thought  into  your 
head  ?  She  was  stolen  from  me !  Cruelly  and  treacher- 
ously stolen  from  me !  It  was  the  same  winter,  and  in- 
deed it  was  the  same  month,  in  which  you  went  to  sea — 
five  years  ago — that  the  nurse,  Mollie  Morris,  stole  the 
child  and  embarked  with  her  in  the  ship  Fairy  for  Liver- 
pool. It  was  wrecked  in  midocean,  and  my  darling,  my 
little,  meek,  gentle  child  was  swallowed  up  in  the  wintry 
sea !"  she  cried,  with  a  sob. 

"For  the  Lord's  sake,  hold  on,"  said  Sam,  staring 
more  wildly  than  ever — "you  say,  ma'am,  it  was  five  years 
ago  since  that  happened?" 

"Five  years  ago  last  January,  my  boy." 

"And  you  think  she  really  was  lost  and  no  mistake?" 

"Ah,  my  boy,  there  have  been  moments  when  I  have 
thought  there  might  be  some  hope;  but  there  can  be 
none,  Sam." 

"Lord,  whatever  shall  I  do?"  muttered  Sam  to  him- 
self. "Mrs.  Carew,"  he  then  inquired,  "have  you  got 
such  a  thing  as  a  salts  bottle  about  you?" 

"No,  my  boy— why?" 

"Because  if  you  had  a  salts  bottle,  I  wanted  you  to 
smell  it  hard.  I  have  got  something  to  tell  you,  Mrs. 
Carew,  and  I  don't  want  you  to  faint  away,"  said  Sam, 
simply. 

The  lady's  face  suddently  went  white  as  death.  But 
she  commanded  herself,  and  said  peremptorily: 

"Tell  me  at  once  what  you  have  to  tell,  Sam.  Sus- 
pense is  worse  than  the  worst  news  can  be  to  me  now." 


After  Some  Years. 


197 


"'It  is  not  the  worst  news,"  murmured  the  boy,  still 
hesitating. 

''Does  it  concern  my  lost  child?  Say!''  exclaimed  the 
lady. 

"Yes,  it  does  ;  but  it  is  not  bad  news." 
"Tell  me  !  tell  me  !" 

"Well,  then,  little  Musette  was  not  lost  in  the  Fairy, 
I  met  her  myself  in  Liverpool  two  years  and  a  half  after 
that." 

"Oh,  Heaven !  Sam  !  Sam  !"  cried  the  lady,  seizing 
his  arm  and  gazing  wildly  in  his  face,  "where?  when? 
how?  Tell  me  all  at  once!  Musette  alive!  Alive!"  and 
the  lady  sank  back  in  her  chair,  overwhelmed  with  emo- 
tion. 

"Steady,  steady,  dear  Mrs.  Carew.  It's  all  right.  I'll 
tell  you  all  about  it.  Oh,  good  gracious!  I  might  have 
known  I  should  knock  her  over  with  the  news.  Is 
there  any  hartshorn,  or  wine,  or  anything  about,  I  won- 
der?'' exclaimed  the  boy,  in  the  utmost  alarm,  as  he 
went  cruising  around  the  room  in  search  of  some  re- 
storative. 

"I  want  nothing,  Sam,  but  news  of  my  child.  Mu- 
sette alive !  Oh,  heaven  of  heavens  !"  exclaimed  Musa, 
still  the  prey  of  wildly  conflicting  emotions. 

"Well,  drink  this  glass  of  water,  anyway,  please, 
ma'am,  and  brace  up,  and  I'll  tell  you  all  I  know.  It  is 
all  right,"  urged  the  boy,  tendering  the  goblet. 

Musa  drank  the  water  and  returned  the  glass,  with 
an  emphatic:  "Now!" 

Sam  drew  a  chair  to  her  side  and  commenced  and 
related  how,  on  the  very  day  of  his  landing  at  Liver- 
pool from  his  first  South  American  voyage,  he  saw  little 
Musette  in  the  street,  asleep  in  the  arms  of  an  old  organ- 
grinder,  whom  she  had  followed. 

Sam  took  care  to  tell  how  healthy  she  looked  and 
how  neatly  she  was  dressed.  Then  he  told  how  he 
accompanied  the  organ-grinder  and  the  child  to  the 
"Prince's  Feathers,"  from  which  she  had  followed  the 
old  man,  and  how  he  found  Mollie  Morris  there,  en- 
gaged as  a  barmaid. 

He  related  how  the  woman  had  told  him  a  tissue 
of  falsehoods,  artfully  mixed  with  some  few  truths,  all 


198  The  Duke  of  Montcalla. 


to  the  effect  that  Mrs.  Carew,  after  her  marriage,  had 
utterly  deserted  the  child,  leaving-  her  and  her  nurse  de- 
pendent upon  the  charity  of  Mr.  Wilks,  who  finally 
obliged  them  to  leave  the  house  together. 

Sam  very  briefly  told  her  how  he  had  persuaded  Mollie 
Morris  to  move  to  London,  and  left  her  comfortably 
settled  in  a  lodging-house,  and  how  he  had  written  a 
long  letter  home  to  his  mother  to  let  her  know  where 
Mollie  and  little  Musette  were  living,  in  case  they  should 
be  wanted;  and  also  that  they  were  both,  as  well  as 
himself,  comfortable  and  happy.  'He  had  left  this  letter 
with  Mollie  to  post  when  he  went  to  sea. 

"She  never  posted  it.  The  traitress  never  posted  it, 
and  never  intended  to  do  so.  If  she  had,  -what  years  of 
agony  I  should  have  been  saved.  But  go  on.  For 
Heaven's  sake,  go  on !"  exclaimed  Musa. 

"That  was  the  last  I  saw  of  Mollie  or  little  Musette. 
I  went  on  my  voyage,  and  was  gone  three  years.  I  re- 
turned about  a  month  ago,  and  as  soon  as  I  could  leave 
the  ship  I  came  up  to  London  to  look  for  Mollie  and 
Musette.  I  went  to  Wellington  street,  Strand,  where 
I  left  them,  but  they  were  no  longer  there.  Strangers 
were  in  the  house  who  could  tell  me  nothing  about 
them." 

"Lost  in  London!  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  my 
child  is  lost  in  London?"  wildly  exclaimed  Musa,  all 
her  hopes  suddenly  destroyed. 

"Oh,  no,  Mrs.  Carew;  we  shall  find  them.  Mollie 
has  prospered,  most  likely,  and  is  keeping  a  lodging- 
house  somewhere  in  a  better  part  of  the  town.  I  know 
we  shall  find  them.  I  have  not  the  least  fear,  particu- 
larly now  that  Mr.  Carew  is  here  to  take  measures  for 
their  discovery,"  said  Sam,  confidently,  adding;  "I  am 
sure  they  are  here  in  London,  all  right." 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE  DUKE  OF  MONTCALLA. 

At  this  moment  a  waiter  entered  and  presented  a  card: 
"The  Duke  of  Montcalla." 

"Bertie!"  said  Musa,  to  herself,  with  a  gleam  of  joy 


The  Duke  of  Montcalla.  199 


lighting  up  the  darkness  of  her  mood.  "Where  is  the 
gentleman?"  she  inquired. 

"In  the  reading-room,  madam." 

"Show  him  up  here,  if  you  please. 

"You  will  please  excuse  me  now,  Mrs.  Carew,  and  I 
will  go  and  look  up  that  tailor  Mr.  Carew  recommended 
to  me,"  said  Sam,  nervously  arising,  for  he  did  not 
like  the  idea  of  meeting  a  stranger,  especially  a  "live 
duke." 

"Yes,  go,  Sam;  but  return  as  soon  as  you  can.  You 
are  to  sleep  here  to-night,  you  know." 

Sam  made  his  escape  about  two  minutes  before  the 
Duke  of  Montcalla  was  announced.  He  entered  and 
crossed  the  room  to  Musa. 

"Bertie!  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you!"  exclaimed 
Musa,  hastening  to  meet  him. 

"Welcome  to  England,  fair  sister,"  said  the  young 
duke,  cordially  pressing  the  hands  that  she  gave  him. 

"And  I  am  glad  to  congratulate  you  on  a  piece  of 
news  that  I  saw  announced  in  the  Times"  said  Musa, 
when  they  were  seated  side  by  side  on  the  sofa. 

"My  forthcoming  marriage  with  my  little  Welsh 
cousin?  Yes,  it  will  come  off  next  month.  You  will 
probably  receive  cards  as  early  as  next  week,"  said  the 
young  duke. 

"Thanks,  dear  Bertie.  What  is  she  like — this  sweet 
Welsh  cousin  of  yours?    I  know,  of  course,  that  she  is 

"  'Queen-Rose  of  the  Rosebud  garden  of  girls,' 

and  all  that.  So  you  needn't  give  me  a  poetical  de- 
scription, but  a  statistical  one — just  such  a  description 
as  the  matter-of-fact  official  will  put  in  your  passport 
when  you  go  abroad  for  your  wedding  tour,"  said  Musa, 
archly. 

"Well,  Musa,"  replied  Bertie,  smiling,  "to  begin  with, 
she  is  about  nineteen  years  of  age.  She  was  a  child  in 
the  nursery  when  she  was  first  set  aside  as  the  future 
wife  of  my  elder  brother.  Since  my  brother  passed 
away  it  seems  that  the  little  girl  has  been  reserved  for 
me.  I  knew  that,  and  I  kept  away  from  old  Tremon- 
tane  Hold  for  years.    It  was  only  by  accident  I  met  my 


200         The  Duke  of  Montcalla. 


sweet  cousin,  and — I  loved  her  before  I  knew  who  she 
was,"  added  the  young  man,  earnestly. 

"Delightful,"  said  Musa.  "That  was  a  conquest  of 
which,  under  the  circumstances,  the  very  queen  of  hearts 
might  have  been  vain." 

"I  do  not  think  vanity  possible  in  her  soul.  She 
is  the  loveliest  " 

"Oh,  yes,  dear  Bertie,  I  know  

"  'She's  all  my  fancy  pictured  her. 
She's  lovely — she's  divine!' 

I  wish  you  much  happiness,  Bertie,  dear." 

"Thanks,  I  am  sure  you  do.  Your  congratulations 
are  more  than  lip-deep,  I  know.  But  now,  dear  Musa, 
tell  me  of  yourself,  and  your  husband  and  child.  I  saw 
in  the  list  of  arrivals  by  the  Messenger,  'Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Carew,  child,  and  two  servants.'  " 

"August  is  well.    He  is  engaged  now  with  his  chief." 

"And  how  about  the  child? — A  bouncing  boy?  A  fu- 
ture president?  All  American  boys,  I  believe,  are  pro- 
spective presidents." 

"No,  Bertie,  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  have  no  boy.  But 
really,  without  any  maternal  vanity,  I  may  say  that  I 
have  the  loveliest  little  girl.  But  I  will  not  describe  my 
little  fairy  to  you.  I  will  let  you  judge  for  yourself," 
said  Musa,  with  a  smile,  as  she  touched  the  bell. 

Her  own  old,  white-headed  servant,  Pendragon,  an- 
swered it. 

"Tell  Cassy  to  bring  Miss  Ethelinde  down,"  she  di- 
rected. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  order  was  Obeyed,  and  Cassy 
entered  the  room,  courtesying,  and  leading  the  little  girl 
by  the  hand. 

The  young  duke  had  always  been  used  to  the  society 
of  children,  having  had  a  houseful  of  little  brothers  and 
sisters  of  his  own.  And  so  he  contrived  to  interest  and 
amuse  little  Ethelinde  for  about  half  an  hou-r,  at  the 
end  of  which  time  her  mother  sent  her  back  to  the 
nursery. 

When  they  were  once  more  alone  together  Musa  said : 

"I  have  something  to  show  you,  Bertie." 

And  she  went  to  a  little  cabinet  that  stood  upon  the 


The  Duke  of  Montcalla.  201 


side-table  and  took  from  it  a  folded  document,  which  she 
brought  and  put  in  her  visitor's  hand. 

It  was  the  certificate  of  her  first  marriage. 

"Oh,  I  am  very  glad  you  have  found  this,"  said  the 
young  duke,  with  so  much  earnestness  that  Musa  gazed 
at  him  with  surprise  for  a  moment,  and  then  asked: 

"Of  what  possible  importance  can  this  now  be,  Ber- 
tie, except  to  place  my  honor  beyond  cavil  before  your- 
self and  some  few  intimate  friends  who  have  heard  of 
my  claims  as  the  sometime  widow  of  your  brother?" 

"My  dear  Musa,  your  honor  always  has  been  'beyond 
cavil,'  and  does  not  need  this  marriage  certificate  as  a 
support.  But  there  are  other  considerations.  Let  me 
explain  them.  You  must  understand,  Musa,  that  my 
mother  had  an  elder  half-brother,  known  as  the  Hon. 
Donald  Livingston.  He  went  to  India  about  half  a 
century  ago,  and  there  amassed  an  enormous  fortune. 
He  never  married ;  but  some  years  before  his  death  he 
made  a  will  leaving  his  entire  estate  to  his  nephew  and 
namesake,  Donald  Livingston  Caux,  Earl  of  Cressy,  and 
to  his  'heirs  forever.  Not  to  his  male  heirs  only.  Failing 
boys,  girls  would  inherit  his  estate.  For  some  reason — 
procrastination,  perhaps — Mr.  Livingston  never  made 
another  will,  but  died  about  two  months  ago,  at  the  ripe 
age  of  seventy-five,  leaving  his  old  will  in  full  force. 
We  received  the  news  of  his  death  and  of  the  only 
existing  will  about  two  weeks  ago." 

Musa  had  noticed  at  their  first  meeting  that  the  young 
duke  was  dressed  in  black,  but  that  which  had  seemed 
!to  her  American  eyes  a  mere  accident  of  taste  now  be- 
came significant  of  bereavement. 

"There  was  no  necessity  for  a  new  will.  Lord 
Cressy's  brothers  and  sisters  would  naturally  be  his 
heirs,"  said  Musa,  gravely. 

"Yes;  had  Cressy  died  childless  and  unmarried  we 
should  have  been  so.  But  Cressy  was  married.  He 
left  a  widow,  and  his  widow,  if  childless  by  him,  is  en- 
titled to  one-half  his  princely  estate.  If  he  had  left  a 
ichild,  also,  his  widow  would  in  that  case  have  been  en- 
titled to  one-third,  and  his  child  to  the  remaining  two- 
thirds.    Do  you  now  understand,  my  fair  sister?" 


202  The  Duke  of  Montcalla. 


"Yes ;  I  understand  it  too  well.  Ah,  Heaven !"  breathed 
Ithe  lady  with  a  suppressed  moan. 

Bertie  looked  at  her  in  much  commiseration.  He  had 
watched  her  with  affectionate  solicitude  throughout  the 
whole  interview.  And  he  had  not  failed  to  notice,  under 
all  her  superficial  affability  and  cheerfulness,  a  deep  under- 
current of  sadness.  He  had  heard  her  sigh  profoundly, 
even  while  she  caressed  her  beautiful  and  happy  little 
Ethelinde.  And  now  he  observed  that  as  soon  as  he  had 
alluded  to  any  possibility  of  her  marriage  with  the  Earl  of 
Cressy  having  been  blessed  with  a  child,  such  a  cloud  of 
sorrow  swept  over  her  face  as  he  had  never  seen  there 
before. 

"Musa,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "I  sometimes  think  that  you 
have  not  entirely  confided  in  me.  I  do  not  wish  to  force 
your  confidence,  dear.  I  have  suspected  that  there  might 
have  been  a  child  born  of  your  marriage  with  Cressy.  I 
kept  my  suppositions  to  myself.  I  could  not  solicit  your 
confidence  then,  my  sister,  nor  should  I  do  so  now  but  for 
some  circumstances  that  have  come  to  my  knowledge,  and 
the  fact  of  this  large  estate  having  been  left,  two-thirds  of 
which  belong  to  Cressy's  child,  if  there  is  one." 

As  he  spoke  Musa  buried  her  face  in  her  handkerchief, 
and  sobbed  aloud. 

"Oh,  forgive  me !  I  distress  you,"  said  Bertie,  anx- 
iously. 

"You  are  right,"  she  said,  as  soon  as  she  could  speak 
through  her  sobs.  "You  are  right.  I  had  a  child,  or 
rather  a  seraph !  Oh,  Bertie !  You  have  seen  my  little 
Ethelinde,  my  bright,  joyous  one,  whom  I  call  my  fairy, 
and  my  sunbeam !  And  you  thought  her  beautiful  ex- 
ceedingly, I  know.  But  you  never  saw  my  little  Musette  V 

"  'Musette !'  "  echoed  the  young  duke,  suddenly. 

"Yes,  Musette !  It  was  the  soft  diminutive  of  my  own 
name,  "and  it  seemed  to  suit  my  tender,  gentle  darling. 
Oh,  Bertie,  if  ever  a  seraph  of  love  was  incarnated  on  this 
earth  it  was  my  meek,  loving  little  Musette!" 

Here  Musa's  emotions  so  utterly  overcame  her  that  she 
gave  way  to  a  burst  of  passionate  sobs  and  tears. 

As  soon  as  she  regained  her  composure  Musa  told  the 
Duke  of  Montcalla  the  story  of  little  Musette's  abduction 
and  her  supposed  loss  at  sea. 


The  Duke  of  Montcalla. 


"Oh,  Bertie,"  she  added,  "for  five  years  I  mourned  m;y 
meek  angel  as  only  a  mother  in  my  circumstances  could 
mourn  her  lost  child — with  an  inconsolable  sorrow,  deep- 
ened by  an  infinite  remorse !  But  only  this  morning,  Ber- 
tie, I  met  one  who  knew  my  little  Musette,  and  had  seen 
her  and  her  treacherous  nurse  in  London  three  years 
ago." 

"Is  it  possible!"  exclaimed  the  young  duke,  his  counte- 
nance lighting  up  with  some  hidden,  unexpressed  hope. 
But  before  he  could  speak  again  the  door  opened,  and 

Mr.  Carew  entered,  accompanied  by  General  and 

young  Samuel  Carew,  as  we  must  henceforth  call  the  heir 
of  Pirate's  Peak  and  Raven  Rocks. 

Musa,  in  rising  to  receive  the  guests,  artfully  turned  so 
as  to  bring  her  face  within  the  shadow  of  the  blue  satin 
window  curtains  and  to  conceal  or  soften  the  traces  of  re- 
cent agitation.  The  minister  advanced  and  shook  hands 
with  Mrs.  Carew.  At  the  same  moment  Mr.  Carew 
greeted  Bertie. 

The  necessary  introductions  were  made  and  the  usual 
courteous  salutations  were  exchanged.  When  Bertie  was 
about  to  take  leave  he  said  : 

"I  hope  vou  have  no  engagement  for  to-morrow  morn- 
ing?" 

"None  whatever.  Y\  e  are  at  your  service  for  the  whole 
day,  if  you  please,"  answered  Mr.  Carew,  speaking  for  the 
whole  party. 

"Then  I  am  about  to  do  an  unusual  thing.  I  am  about 
to  invite  myself  to  lunch  with  you  and  Mrs.  Carew,  and 
also  to  ask  permission  to  bring  a  little  protegee  of  mine," 
said  Bertie. 

"Delightful  1"  answered  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carew  in  one 
voice. 

"We  lunch  at  two  o'clock,  usually ;  but  we  will  fix  any 
other  hour  you  may  prefer,"  added  Musa,  cordially. 

"Pray  do  not  change  the  hour.  I  will  report  myself 
punctually  at  two,"  answered  Bertie,  as  he  bowed  and  re- 
tired. 

General  soon  after  took  leave.   Sam  went  out  to 

receive  some  parcels  that  had  been  sent  home  for  him. 
And  the  husband  and  wife  were  left  aione  together. 

"Oh,  August !"  said  Musa,  throwing  herself  down  be- 


204         The  Duke  of  Montcalla. 


side  her  husband  on  the  sofa  and  dropping  her  head  on 
his  shoulder,  "I  have  heard  such  news  to-day !" 

"News!  my  darling?" 

"Such  news,  August!" 

"Good  or  bad,  Musa?" 

"Very  good  news!  the  very  best  news!  The  worst 
news !"  she  answered,  confusedly,  and  then  she  told  him 
all  that  she  had  heard  from  Sam  about  Musette  and  Mol- 
lie  Morris,  and  ended  by  saying : 

"But  send  for  him  and  ask  him  yourself.  And,  oh, 
August/'  she  pleaded,  clasping  her  hands  and  looking 
prayerfully  in  his  eyes,  "oh,  August,  find  my  darling  for 
me!" 

"If  she  is  on  earth  she  shall  be  found !"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Carew.  "But  I  must  question  the  boy,"  he  added,  as  he 
rang  the  bell. 

"Go  to  Master  Carew's  room  and  ask  him  to  come  here 
immediately,"  was  the  order  that  he  gave  to  old  Pen- 
dragon,  who  had  answered  the  bell. 

Samuel  Carew  soon  entered. 

"My  dear  boy,"  said  Musa,  "I  want  you  to  detail  to 
Mr.  Carew  all  the  circumstances  of  your  meeting  with  lit- 
tle Musette,  and  of  your  residence  with  Mollie  Morris,  and 
your  parting  with  the  woman  and  child,  when  you  went  on 
your  last  voyage." 

"Yes,  madam,"  answered  Sam,  taking  the  seat  that  Mr. 
Carew  silently  pointed  out  to  him. 

The  youth  then  began  and  related  the  story  in  detail, 
from  the  moment  of  his  finding  Musette  asleep  on  the  old 
organ-grinder's  knees,  at  a  street  corner  in  Liverpool,  to 
the  moment,  seven  weeks  Liter,  that  he  kissed  her  good- 
by  in  the  lodging-house  in  London,  when  he  went  on  his 
voyage. 

Mr.  Carew  let  the  boy  tell  the  story  straight  through 
without  interruption.  At  the  close  he  began  to  question 
him.  Sam's  answers  were  clear  and  satisfactory,  so  far  as 
they  went. 

"But,"  he  added,  "Mollie  Morris  had  moved  away  from 
the  lodging-house  where  he  had  left  her  with  Musette, 
and  he  had  not  been  able  to  find  a  trace  of  either  the 
woman  or  child  since  his  return  to  England." 


The  Duke  of  Montcaila.  205 


"That  will  do,  my  boy.  We  will  take  immediate  steps 
for  the  recovery  of  little  Musette." 

So  saying  he  sat  down  to  his  writing-table  and  rapidly 
wrote  out  half-a-dozen  advertisements  offering  a  large 
reward  for  news  of  a  woman  named  Mary  Morris  and 
a  child  named  Musette,  who  three  years  before  lived  in 
a  lodging-house  at  No.  —  Wellington  street,  Strand. 

"There,  my  boy,  call  a  hansom  cab,  and  take  these  ad- 
vertisements around  to  the  Times,  Chronicle,  Standard, 
and  other  morning  papers.  Have  them  inserted  at  once. 
Then  drive  'to  Scotland  Yard  and  ask  for  the  chief,  and 
request  him  to  call  here,  or  to  send  a  good  detective — the 
best  one  he  can  get,"  said  Mr.  Carew,  when  he  had  fin- 
ished his  task. 

Samuel  Carew  eagerly  undertook  this  mission,  and 
hastened  away  to  accomplish  it. 

"What  do  you  think  of  our  chances  of  success?"  in- 
quired Musa,  very  anxiously. 

"I  think  them  very  good,"  answered  August,  as  en- 
couragingly as  he  could  speak. 

"Then  I  have  another  subject  to  speak  to  you  of,  dear 
husband — one  that  I  shrink  from  broaching,"  said  Musa, 
hesitatingly. 

"What  is  that,  dearest?  And  why  should  you  shrink 
from  broaching  it  to  me?"  affectionately  inquired  August. 

"Because  it  is  the  subject  of  my  former  marriage," 
answered  Musa,  in  a  low,  hesitating  voice. 

"Well,  dearest,  what  of  that?" 

"It  may  become  my  duty  to  establish  the  validity  of 
that  first  marriage." 

"Upon  what  new  account?" 

"This :  There  has  been  an  immense  fortune  of  several 
millions  of  pounds  sterling  left  to  the  late  Earl  of  Cressy 
and  his  heirs." 

"And  you  want  your  portion  of  that  fortune?  My 
dear,  have  we  not  enough  of  this  world's  goods?" 

"We  have  enough.  And  our  daughter  Ethelinde  will 
be  a  very  rich  heiress.  But  little  Musette,  if  she  be 
found,  will  have  nothing.  She  can  inherit  nothing  of 
ours,  because  she  is  not  the  child  of  our  marriage.  But 
if  I  establish  the  validity  of  my  first  marriage,  which  I 
can  easily  do  now,  having  the  marriage  certificate  and 


2o6         The  Duke  of  Montcalla. 


all  the  letters  written  to  me  by  the  late  Earl  of  Cressy, 
then,  indeed,  my  darling,  if  found,  instead  of  being  a 
nameless  little  pauper,  will  come  into  her  title  of  cour- 
tesy as  an  earl's  daughter,  and  into  a  dower  of  several 
million  pounds  sterling.  August,  have  I  any  right  by 
inaction  to  deprive  my  meek,  beautiful  darling  of  all  her 
birthrights  as  the  granddaughter  of  a  duke,  the  daugh- 
ter of  an  earl  and  the  heiress  of  a  nabob,  and  leave  her — 
as  she  will  be,  if  found1 — the  nameless  and  penniless 
child  of  questionable  birth?"  earnestly  urged  Musa. 

Mr.  Carew  did  not  reply  at  once.  He  seemed  buried 
in  reflection. 

"And  yet,  my  beloved,  my  adored  husband,  if  it  be 
your  will  that  I  shall  remain  inactive,  I  will  do  so.  You 
have  made  all  the  strength  and  comfort  and  joy  of  my 
life.  And  I  will  let  no  interest,  however  dear,  clash  with 
your  will  or  my  devotion,''  added  Musa,  with  deep  feel- 
ing. 

He  drew  her  to  his  side  and  kissed  her  tenderly,  as  he 
said: 

"I  never  doubted  your  devotion,  even  in  the  darkest 
of  days,  my  peerless  wife;  and  cannot  begin  to  do  so  now. 
But,  Musa,  if  your  little  Musette  should  be  found,  as 
I  trust  in  Heaven  she  may  be,  it  will  become  your  sacred 
duty  to  establish  the  validity  of  your  former  marriage 
with  the  late  Earl  of  Cressy  at  whatever  cost  to  your 
feelings  or  mine.    Justice  must  be  done  to  the  child." 

"Heaven  bless  you,  my  dear  husband!  Heaven  make 
me  worthy  of  you — if  that  be  possible!"  said  Musa,  with 
much  emotion.  "But,  oh,  that  my  darling  may  be  found! 
Oh,  that  she  may  be  found!"  she  added,  with  fervent 
sighs. 

As  she  said  this  there  came  a  rap  at  the  door,  fol- 
lowed by  the  entrance  of  a  waiter,  who  announced  that 
there  was  a  "person"  below,  who  asked  to  see  Mr.  Ca- 
rew. 

"Show  him  up,"  said  that  gentleman. 

When  the  waiter  had  left  the  room  to  do  his  errand 
August  turned  to  Musa  and  said: 

"It  is  some  one  from  Scotland  Y  rd,  my  dear.  And 
you  had  better  retire,  perhaps." 

Musa  immediately  arose  and  went  into  her  bedroom. 


The  Duke  of  Montcalla.  207 


A  few  moments  passed  and  the  detective  from  Scotland 
Yard  entered  the  room,  bowed,  gave  his  name  as 
"Ketchum,"  and  presented  a  note  from  his  chief. 

Mr.  Carew  invited  the  bearer  to  be  seated. 

The  note  was  from  the  chief  of  police  at  Scotland 
Yard,  to  introduce  Mr.  John  Ketchum,  whom  it  repre- 
sented to  be  the  most  skillful  and  successful  detective 
in  the  force. 

Mr.  Carew  was  closeted  with  this  detective  for  more 
than  two  hours,  during  which  he  gave  him  a  full  descrip- 
tion of  the  woman  and  the  child,  with  a  detailed  history 
.  of  the  abduction,  and  an  account  of  their  residence  in 
London  three  years  previous. 

Then  he  gave  him  a  check  for  a  hundred  pounds  and 
directions  to  spare  no  expense  in  his  search  for  the  miss-^ 
ing  parties,  and  so  sent  him  away. 

As  soon  as  the  man  was  gone  Mr.  Carew  opened  the 
door  leading  to  the  next  room  and  called  Musa. 

She  hastened  to  meet  him. 

"Well,  my  dearest,  I  have  ^secured  the  services  of  per- 
haps the  most  adroit  detective  in  the  world,  John 
Ketchum,  of  Scotland  Yard,"  said  August,  when  they 
were  once  more  seated  together. 

"Yes,  I  have  heard  of  his  wondrous  skill — almost  like 
magic,"  replied  Musa. 

"He  it  was  who  traced  out  the  'Red  Mill  murder,'  and 
brought  the  assassin  to  justice.  And  it  was  he  who  re- 
covered the  great  Albemarle  diamond,  stolen  from  the 
premises  of  Messrs.  Rayburn,  jewelers,  Oxford  street." 

"Yes,  yes,  August;  I  have  heard  of  those  cases.  I 
know  something  of  what  the  man  has  done  for  others, 
but  what  can  he  do  for  us — oh,  what  can  he  do  for  us?" 
breathlessly  demanded  Musa. 

"My  dearest,  he  says  that  if  the  child  is  living,  and  in 
London,  he  will  produce  her  in  a  week.  If  she  is  not 
in  London,  yet  anywhere  in  the  United  Kingdom,  h^  will 
find  her  in  a  month.    He  is  confident  of  success." 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


THE  MEETING. 

The  next  day  was  the  first  of  June,  It  was  a  very  fine 
morning,  even  in  London. 

Musa,  profoundly  anxious  as  she  was  concerning  the 
fate  of  her  lost  child,  yet  contrived  to  interest  herself  in 
superintending  the  arrangements  of  a  very  elegant  lunch- 
table,  to  do  honor  to  her  dear  friend,  though  self-invited 
guest,  the  young  Duke  of  Montcalla. 

It  was  just  a  quarter  to  two  o'clock  p.  m.,  when  the 
door  of  the  drawing-room  was  thrown  open  by  old  Corn- 
wallis,  who,  in  his  own  peculiar  "gold-stick-in- waiting" 
style,  announced: 

"The  Duke  of  Montcalla." 

And  Bertie  entered  the  room,  leading  by  the  hand  a 
lovely  little  girl  about  seven  years  of  age,  dressed  in 
white  from  head  to  foot. 

Musa  arose  and  walked  forward  to  receive  her  guest. 
She  had  forgotten  that  he  was  to  bring  "a  little  protegee" 
She  scarcely  now  saw  the  little  girl.  Her  eyes  were 
raised  to  the  young  duke's  face,  and  her  hand  was  ex- 
tended to  greet  him  with  a  pleasant  "Good-morning." 

"Will  you  welcome  my  little  protegee  now,  Musa?"  in- 
quired Bertie. 

She  cast  her  eyes  down  on  the  child — started1 — gazed — - 
paled — flushed — and  then  

"Musette!    Oh,  my  Cod,  I  thank  Thee!" 

And  she  sank  down  upon  her  knees,  and  clasped  the 
child  to  her  heart,  almost  broken  under  its  burden  of  un- 
utterable joy  and  gratitude.  Her  cry  brought  August 
Carew  out  from  his  study. 

Mr.  Carew  saw  this  group — Musa  kneeling  on  the 
floor,  with  a  white-robed  child  clasped  to  her  heart,  her 
head  bent  over  the  little  one's  form,  her  bosom  heaving 
with  deep  sobs  of  joy.  And  beside  them  Bertie,  holding 
up  his  hand  in  an  admonitory  manner. 

Mr.  Carew  took  in  the  situation  at  a  glance.  He  ad- 
vanced and  offered  his  hand  to  Bertie,  who  received  and 


The  Meeting. 


209 


pressed  it  in  silence.  Musa  was  lost  to  everything  in  the 
universe  except  her  recovered  child. 

"Musette!  Musette!  Oh,  my  God,  I  thank  Thee!" 
broke  again  in  a  rapture  of  deep  gratitude  and  reverence 
from  her  lips,  as  she  raised  and  threw  back  her  head, 
panting,  gasping  as  if  her  soul  would  have  burst  forth  in 
that  profound  aspiration  of  thankfulness. 

She  did  not  wonder  how  the  child  had  been  recovered. 
It  was  enough  at  that  moment  that  she  felt  and  saw  her 
there. 

And  little  Musette,  the  wondering  and  pitying  child? 

There  was  ineffable  tenderness  and  compassion  in  her 
dark  eyes  as  they  rested  on  the  eloquent  face  of  the 
beautiful  lady  kneeling  before  her;  but  there  was  no  in- 
tuitive knowledge  of  that  lady's  near  relationship  to  her- 
self. With  little  Musette,  however,  pity  was  always  the 
nearest  kin  to  love.  And  love  was  the  keynote  of  all 
her  life's  harmony.  So  she  gazed  on  the  weeping 
beauty  in  wonder  and  pity  for  a  while.  And  then  her 
little  white-gloved  hands,  like  two  little  white  doves,  flew 
out  and  hovered  around  Musa's  neck,  and  her  soft,  pa- 
thetic voice  murmured: 

"Don't  cry,  lady,  I  love  you.  Oh,  indeed  I  do  love 
you." 

This  was  too  much  for  the  mother's  overwrought 
heart. 

"You  love  me,  my  seraph,  you  love  me?"  she  cried, 
dropping  her  head  once  more  over  the  form  of  the  child 
and  breaking  into  a  shower  of  tears. 

And  little  Musette's  hands  hovered  around  her  face 
and  tried  to  wipe  the  tears  from  her  eyes,  as  she  repeated 
her  little  heavenly  phrase: 

"I  love  you,  I  do  love  you  so  much." 

Then  August  Carew  approached  the  group  and  laid 
his  comforting  hand  upon  the  bowed  head  of  his  wife  as 
he  said: 

"My  own  dear  Musa,  my  heart  shares  your  deep  joy  at 
this  hour,  and  goes  up  with  yours  in  fervent  thanksgiving 
for  this  happy  restoration,  But,  my  dearest,  try  now  to 
recover  yourself,  and  control  your  emotions.  See,  you 
distress  this  sweet  child,  who  is  doing  her  best  to  soothe 


210  The  Meeting. 


you.  Children  don't  understand  tears  of  joy.  She  thinks 
that  you  are  in  trouble.    Let  me  help  you  to  rise." 

And  he  took  her  hand  tenderly  and  assisted  her  to  her 
feet. 

She  still  held  the  child  closely  clasped  to  her  side  with 
one  hand  and  arm,  while  she  raised  the  other  hand  to  her 
own  bewildered  brow,  and  ran  the  fingers  through  the 
dark  ringlets  of  her  hair,  as  she  stood  gazing  at  her  hus- 
band, as  if  she  scarcely  recognized  him. 

She  seemed  indeed  almost  bereft  of  her  reason  by  the 
suddennes  and  excess  of  her  joy. 

"Have  I  passed  away  from  the  earth  and  met  my  child 
in  the  world  of  spirits  at  last?  She  would  be  seven 
years  old  in  heaven  now.  And,  oh,  her  beauty  is  celes- 
tial and  her  garments  are  white!  Have  I  met  Musette 
in  the  spirit  land,  I  wonder,  or  am  I  still  in  the  flesh, 
on  earth?"  she  said,  looking  strangely  at  her  husband 
and  still  clasping  her  child. 

"You  are  here  by  my  side,  Musa,  my  dear  wife.  Try 
to  collect  your  faculties  and  steady  your  nerves.  You 
have  borne  grief  heroically.  Do  not  sink  under  joy. 
Take  your  little  Musette  by  the  hand,  and  let  me  lead 
you  to  your  room,  and  in  its  seclusion  you  can  get  ac- 
customed to  your  happiness  and  compose  yourself,"  said 
August,  in  a  low,  admonitory  tone,  as  he  conducted  the 
lady  and  the  child  to  the  adojining  chamber,  put  them 
gently  in  at  the  door,  and  closed  it  after  them. 

Then  he  turned  to  the  young  duke  with  some  at- 
tempted apology  for  Musa's  want  of  self-control.  Ber- 
tie said: 

"Who  can  wonder  at  anything  that  we  have  seen? 
The  shock,  joyful  as  it  was,  was  yet  enough  to  have 
killed  her.  The  fault  was  mine.  I  should  have  prepared 
her  for  this  meeting.  Though,  indeed,  until  this  hour  I 
was  by  no  means  certain  that  this  lovely  little  girl  was 
really  her  lost  Musette.  I  only  suspected  and  hoped 
that  the  little  waif  I  have  had  under  my  care  for  the  last 
two  years  might  be  the  missing  child.  And  now  T 
suppose  you  would  like  to  hear  how  I  came  to  be  in 
possession  of  this  lovely  little  girl?" 

"Certainly,  just  as  soon  as  you  feel  disoosed  to  tell 
me/' 

r 


The  Meeting. 


211 


"I  feel  so  now.  It  is  rather  a  pathetic  story.  There- 
fore I  would  prefer  to  relate  it  to  yourself  alone.  You 
can  afterward  repeat  as  much  or  as  little  of  it  as  you  see 
fit  to  your  wife." 

As  the  two  gentlemen  conversed  they  approached 
the  upper  end  of  the  room,  where  the  little  golden-haired 
and  blue-eyed  elf,  Ethelinde,  sat  half-hidden  in  the 
depths  of  a  large  cushioned  chair,  and  looking  out  with 
wonder-widened  eyes  at  all  that  she  had  seen  and  failed 
to  comprehend. 

"Ah,  sweetheart,  is  it  you  ?  How  do  you  do  ?  Do  you 
still  like  me?  Will  you  give  me  a  kiss?"  gayly  inquired 
Bertie,  lifting  the  bright  fairy  in  his  arms. 

"Yes.  of  course  I  like  you,"  frankly  replied  Ethelinde, 
giving  the  customary  proof.  "But  what  little  girl  was 
that  you  brought  here  ?  And  what  made  mamma  kneel 
down  and  cry  ?" 

"What  shall  I  say  to  the  child?"  gravely  inquired  the 
young  duke,  as  he  set  her  upon  her  feet  again,  and 
looked  in  droll  perplexity  toward  Mr.  Carew. 

"Ethelinde,  run  right  away  to  mamma.  She  is  in  her 
bedroom,  and  she  will  tell  you  all  about  your  dear  little 
sister,"  said  August,  turning  the  child  around  and  point- 
ing to  the  chamber  door. 

"My  little  sister !  Oh  !  Is  she  my  little  sister?"  panted 
the  child,  eagerly,  her  bright-blue  eyes  dancing  with  de- 
light. 

"Yes,  indeed,  she  is  your  little  sister — your  own  dear 
little  sister.  Run  and  see  her.  The  duke  here  brought 
her  to  you  this  morning.  Run  away  now  and  see  her," 
answered  her  father,  hurrying  her  off. 

Away  darted  Ethelinde,  like  some  bright  bird  through 
space,  to  find  that  ardently- desired  blessing  of  every 
little,  only  daughter's  heart — a  little  sister  companion. 

"Now  for  your  story,  duke.  I  am  really  very  much  in- 
terested to  learn  how  you  first  discovered  the  child,"  said 
August. 

"It  is  now  two  years  since,  near  the  close  of  a  sunny 
day,  in  the  height  of  the  season,  I  was  driving  in  from 
Kensington,  and  had  reached  Oxford  street,  on  my  way 
to  my  club. 

"I  had  reached  the  corner  of  Regent  street,  when  I 


The  Meeting. 


witnessed  an  occurrence  that  curdled  my  blood.  I  saw 
the  tiniest  little  girl  that  ever  held  a  toy  broom  trying 
to  sweep  the  crossing.  She  was  about  half-way  across 
the  street  when  she  started  to  get  out  of  the  way  of  a 
heavy  van,  and  at  the  same  instant  fell  under  the  horses' 
feet  before  I  could  pull  up. 

The  carriage  was  stopped.  The  child  was  lifted  up, 
insensible,  by  my  servant,  and  laid,  by  my  orders,  upon 
my  knees — a  little  pale,  pathetic  form,  wonderfully  clean 
for  a  little  crossing-sweeper,  and  clothed  in  well-patched 
garments.  I  thought  the  child  was  only  stunned  or 
fainting.  So  I  dispatched  a  messenger  to  summon  our 
own  family  physician,  and  I  gave  the  order  to  drive 
gently  back  to  Montcalla  Lodge.,, 

"That  child  was  Musette,  then?" 

"Yes.  When  I  reached  Montcalla  Lodge  I  sent  for 
my  esteemed  maiden  aunt,  Lady  Etheldreda  Caux,  and 
for  our  worthy  old  housekeeper,  Barnes.  I  informed 
Lady  Etheldreda  that  I  had  run  over  and  nearly  killed 
the  child,  and  that  she  must  be  tenderly  cared  for.  And 
I  laid  her  in  the  motherly  arms  of  Barnes. 

"To  do  my  prim  maiden  aunt  justice  she  received  this 
little  charge  with  great  compassion,  and  had  her  put  to 
bed  comfortably. 

"Our  physician  arrived  promptly,  and  went  up  to  ex- 
amine the  little  patient.  And  I  waited  the  result  of  the 
examination  with  great  anxiety. 

"At  length  the  doctor  came  down,  and  his  report  re- 
lieved me  very  much.  He  said  that  there  were  no  seri- 
ous injuries,  either  internal  or  external.  The  child  had 
received  a  severe  shock  to  her  nervous  system,  and  would 
require  perfect  rest  and  good  treatment  for  a  few  days. 
That  was  absolutely  all.  And  the  doctor  went  away, 
promising  to  look  in  again  the  next  morning. 

"As  soon  as  my  mind  was  relieved  in  regard  to  the 
child  I  thought  of  the  business  that  had  taken  me  out 
in  the  earlier  part  of  the  afternoon.  And  I  ordered  the 
brougham  and  left  the  house  to  transact  it. 

"I  returned  just  before  dinner.  I  thought  I  would  like 
to  see  the  injured  child,  so  I  went  up  to  look  at  her.  She 
was  in  one  of  the  smaller  spare  bedrooms,  lying  in  a 
dainty  little  white  bed.   Her  little  black-haired  head  lay 


The  Meeting. 


well  up  on  the  pillow ;  her  cheeks  were  bright  with  fever. 
I  thought  I  had  never  seen  a  prettier  child. 

"I  took  the  little  feverish  hand  and  spoke  to  her.  But 
she  gazed  on  me  without  answering,  and  began  to  babble 
at  random  in  a  sweet,  birdlike  voice: 

"  'Pennies,  mammy !  So  many  pennies  for  sweeping 
See  !  see  !  So  many  pennies  !  Buy  tea,  mammy !  Buy 
sugar!' 

"  'Has  she  been  long  like  this  ?'  I  inquired  of  the  house- 
maid, who  was  watching  beside  her. 

"The  girl  answered  that  the  child  had  been  'rambling 
in  her  mind'  ever  since  six  o'clock. 

"But  soon  the  child's  birdlike  tones  sank  and  changed 
into  the  deepest  pathos,  as  she  murmured,  slowly : 

"  'My — poor — mammy.    My — poor — mammy.' 

"Her  pathetic  voice  went  to  my  heart  and  roused  my 
memory.  I  recollected  then  what  I  ought  never  to  have 
forgotten — that  this  child  had  friends  who  ought  to  have 
been  quickly  advised  of  her  whereabouts  r.n.d  condition. 

"I  left  the  room,  urging  the  housemaid  to  take  the  best 
care  of  her,  and  I  went  downstairs  and  dispatched  a  mes- 
senger to  the  scene  of  the  accident  to  make  investiga- 
tions. 

"It  was  late  at  night  before  my  messenger  returned. 
He  said  that  he  had  experienced  some  difficulty  in  doing 
his  errand,  and  had  been  obliged  to  call  in  the  aid  of  a 
detective-policeman  before  he  succeeded  in  finding  the 
poor  child's  miserable  home,  over  a  junk  shop,  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Drury  lane. 

"He  further  reported  that  he  found  the  mother  in  des- 
titute circumstances,  and  in  a  dying  condition.  She  was 
so  low,  indeed,  that  she  could  scarcely  be  made  to  under- 
stand that  the  child  had  been  lost,  and  was  found,  and 
was  safe. 

"The  next  morning  I  went  to  my  aunt  and  told  her  the 
piteous  story  of  the  destitute  and  dying  mother,  and  of 
this  mere  babe  going  out  to  sweep  the  crossing,  and  of 
her  delirious  babbling  about  'sweeping,'  and  'pennies/ 
and  'tea,'  and  her  'poor — dear — mammy.' 

"Lady  Etheldreda  wept.  Her  charities  were  known 
far  and  wide.  She  ordered  her  brougham,  had  it  stocked 
with  tea,  sugar,  wine,  jelly,  and  everything  else  that  her 


214 


The  Meeting 


experience  taught  her  might  be  acceptable  to  the  sick 
woman,  and  taking  her  maid  with  her,  she  drove  down 
to  the  wretched  neighborhood  and  to  the  miserable  room 
that  little  Musette  had  called  her  home. 

"There  she  found  the  woman  Morris  in  full  as  destitute 
a  condition  as  had  been  reported,  but  so  ill  as  to  be  al- 
most indifferent  or  insensible  to  surroundings. 

"Lady  Etheldreda  caused  her  to  be  at  once  and  care- 
fully removed  to  the  Westminster  Hospital,  where  she 
could  receive  the  very  best  treatment. 

"The  next  day  I  accompanied  Lady  Etheldreda  in  her 
•  visit  to  this  hospital,  where  we  found  the  woman  some- 
what better.  She  seemed  grateful  for  our  care  of  little 
Musette,  and  anxious  to  be  reunited  to  the  child. 

"When,  however,  we  explained  that  the  little  one  was 
not  well  enough  to  be  brought  to  her  that  day  she  grew 
very  uneasy,  and  continued  to  murmur  from  time  to 
time: 

"  'Lord,  forgive  me  my  great  sin — Lord  forgive  me 
my  great  sin!' 

"And  when  we  were  about  to  take  leave  of  her  she 
raised  her  fading  eyes  to  mine  and  asked: 

"  'Do  you  think  the  Lord  will  forgive  me  a  great  sin, 
when  I  am  so  sorry  that  I  did  it?' 

"  'Most  certainly  he  will,'  I  answered;  'but  I  will  send 
a  minister  to  you,  who  will  tell  you  better  than  I  can  of 
the  Lord's  tender  mercy  and  loving  kindness/ 

"  'It  is — about — the  child,'  she  said,  her  breath  com- 
ing shorter  and  shorter.  'It  is — about — Musette.  She 
is — not  my  own  child — she  is  a  little  lady.' 

"Saying  this  the  woman  drew  a  deep  sigh  of  relief. 
It  was  her  last  breath." 

"Dead?"  inquired  Mr.  Carew. 

"Yes,  dead.  Her  end,  you  see,  was  much  nearer  than 
we  knew.  We  gave  directions  for  a  decent  funeral,  and 
then  returned  to  Montcalla  House — I,  with  the  firm  re- 
solve to  educate  and  provide  for  the  little  seraph  that 
I  had  nearly  run  down  and  trampled  to  death  in  Oxford 
street. 

"When  little  Musette  was  able  to  leave  her  bed  and 
walk  about  her  room  her  pleadings  to  go  home  to  her 
'poor,  dear  mammy,'  were  almost  heart-rending. 


The  Meeting. 


215 


"Then  Lady  Etheldreda  took  the  child  upon  her  lap 
and  told  her  that  the  good  Saviour  had  taken  her  poor 
sick  mammy  to  heaven,  and  had  made  her  well  and 
happy,  and  given  her  everything  she  wanted.  And  that 
her  mammy  would  never  be  poor,  sick,  or  hungry,  or 
cold,  or  sorry  any  more,  but  would  live  among  the  holy 
and  happy  angels  in  the  light  of  the  Lord's  love,  for- 
ever.   All  this  the  child's  heart  received  as  pure  truth. 

"The  dying  woman  had  said,  with  her  last  breath,  that 
this  child  was  not  her  own — that  this  child  was  a  little 
lady.  And  every  look,  gesture  and  tone  of  little  Musette 
proved  her  indeed  to  be  a  little  lady  of  the  most  re- 
fined, the  sweetest  and  loveliest  nature.  And  as  a  little 
lady  I  resolved  to  have  her  brought  up. 

"Even  Lady  Etheldreda  recognized  the  child's  gentle 
and  noble  nature,  and  felt  no  hesitation  in  introduc- 
ing her  into  the  nursery  and  schoolroom  of  my  little 
sisters. 

"  'She  must  be  made  to  understand,  however,  that  the 
woman  Morris,  whom  she  called  her  "mammy,"  was  not 
her  mother,  but  only  her  nurse,  and  she  must  then  be 
allowed  to  forget  her,  if  it  is  possible/  said  my  aunt. 

"And  I  agreed  with  her;  for  I  was  so  pleased  to  see 
her  receive  the  forlorn  child  so  readily  that  I  would 
have  agreed  to  almost  anything  she  might  have  pro- 
posed. 

"The  child  was  therefore  told  that  the  poor  'mammy* 
she  mourned  was  not  her  own  mother,  but  only  her 
'mammy'  or  nurse.  And  that  some  day  she  might  see 
her  own  mother. 

"Now  this  revelation  might  have  set  another  child  to 
asking  awkward  questions  that  none  of  us  could  have 
answered.  But  this  meek  little  girl  received  whatever 
we  told  her  as  truth,  and  asked  no  further  information. 

"  T  love  my  poor,  dear  mammy,'  she  said,  very  ten- 
derly; that  was  all. 

"And  then  she  was  introduced  into  the  nursery  and 
the  schoolroom  of  my  little  sisters.  I  have  four  of  them 
— Edith,  aged  twelve,  Maude  and  Bertie,  twins,  aged 
ten,  and  little  Constance,  aged  eight. 

"These  children  were  very  fond  of  pets,  and  had  any 
number  of  birds,  puppies,  kittens,  and  so  forth.    But  I 


n6 


The  Meeting. 


will  venture  to  say  they  never  had  a  pet  they  welcomed 
with  so  much  delight,  and  loved  with  so  much  devotion, 
as  little  Musette.  They  were  emulous  as  to  who  should 
show  the  little  stranger  the  most  affectionate  attention. 
They  pressed  upon  her  their  prettiest  dolls,  pictures, 
books,  toys,  and  pets. 

"I  thought  that  the  child  herself  was  only  a  new  toy 
or  a  new  pet  in  the  nursery,  and  that  these  children 
would  soon  grow  tired  of  their  idol. 

"But  no;  it  was  not  so.  Little  Musette,  with  her 
fond,  unselfish  nature,  returned  their  affection  with  so 
much  love  that  she  completely  and  forever  won  their 
hearts. 

"And  the  sad-eyed  child  grew  bright  and  happy  among 
them. 

"She  has  been  their  inseparable  companion  for  the 
last  two  years,  sharing  their  studies  and  their  pastimes; 
remaining  with  them  at  Montcalla  Lodge  during  the 
spring  and  early  summer  months ;  going  with  them  to 
Brighton  in  July,  to  Scotland  in  September,  and  to 
Caux  Castle  for  the  Christmas  holidays. 

"I  taught  her  to  call  me  uncle,  not  knowing  how  near 
the  truth  I  came.  And  this  morning  I  told  her  that  I 
was  going  to  bring  her  here  to  introduce  her  to  a  lady 
friend.  And  I  brought  her.  My  story  is  finished,  Mr. 
Carew,"  said  the  young  duke,  abruptly  cutting  short  his 
discourse,  as  he  saw  the  chamber  door  open  and  Musa 
re-enter  the  parlor,  leading  her  two  little  girls,  one  in 
each  hand. 

"And  you  must  receive  my  heartfelt,  lifelong  thanks 
for  all  your  saving  care  of  our  forlorn  child/'  said  Mr. 
Carew,  with  much  emotion,  as  he  arose  and  took  the 
young  man's  hand  and  earnestly  pressed  it. 

Musa  came  directly  up  to  Bertie,  with  tearful  eyes 
and  radiant  smile,  holding  out  her  hand,  and  saying: 

"To  think  I  have  not  even  thanked  you  yet  for  the 
great  happiness  you  have  brought  me,  Bertie!  But,  oh! 
believe  me,  that  the  profound,  eternal  gratitude  I  feel 
can  never  be  expressed,  and  never  be  lessened!" 

"Nonsense,  my  fair  sister!  Nobody  owes  me  any 
thanks.  I  did  but  please  myself  in  taking  care  of  this 
sweet  little  girl,  before  I  ever  suspected  her  to  be  your 


The  Meeting.  217 


daughter  and  my  niece.  I  congratulate  you  with  all  my 
heart  on  her  recovery,"  said  the  young  duke,  cordially 
shaking  the  hand  she  had  offered  him. 

"I  will  not  ask  you  yet  by  what  happy  chance  you 
found  her,"  said  Musa,  who  was  still  utterly  ignorant 
whether  little  Musette  had  been  under  her  young  uncle's 
care  a  day,  a  month,  or  a  year. 

"No,  do  not  ask  me  now,  dear  Musa.  I  have  told 
Mr.  Carew  the  whole  story,  and  he  will  tell  it  tO'  you  at 
some  convenient  time,"  Bertie  gravely  answered. 

"I  will  tell  you  all  about  it  to-night,  Musa,"  added 
August. 

"That  will  do.  It  is  quite  enough  for  me  at  present 
to  know  that  I  have  the  child,"  said  Musa,  bending 
her  head  in  reverential  gratitude. 

At  that  moment  young  Samuel  Carew  entered  the 
room,  and  bowed  to  the  duke. 

He  turned  and  stared  at  the  strange  little  girl  for  half 
a  moment,  and,  recognizing  her  by  her  beautiful  eyes,  he 
ran  across  the  room,  seized  her  little  hand,  gazed  at  her, 
and  then  snatched  her  up  and  kissed  her  heartily,  ex- 
claiming: 

"Musette!  you  have  forgotten  me  again!  I  knew  you 
would.  How  could  you  remember  so  long,  poor  little 
soul?  Oh,  you'll  soon  know  me  again  though,  and 
you'll  feel  as  you  had  known  me  all  your  life.  And  so 
you  have,  mostly,"  added  Sam,  as  he  set  the  astonished 
child  on  her  feet  once  more. 

"You  knew  her  as  I  did,  in  a  moment,  Sam,"  said  Mrs. 
Carew. 

"Why,  yes!  Who  could  ever  forget  her  eyes?  But, 
oh,  I  say !  Didn't  old  Ketchum  make  short  work  of  find- 
ing her?"  he  inquired,  in  surprise. 

"The  detective  did  not  find  her.  The.  Duke  of  Mont- 
calla  brought  our  little  girl  to  us  this  morning.  You 
shall  hear  the  whole  story  by  and  by,  Sam,"  Musa  ex- 
pired. 

"And,  oh!  by  the  way,  I  had  forgotten,"  put  in  the 
young  Duke,  jocosely,  "I  think  I  may  claim  that  munifi- 
cent reward  offered  for  the  reovery  of  the  lost  child! 
How  much  was  it?  Two  hundred  pounds,  or  five  hun- 
dred!" 


218 


Musa's  Triumph. 


Before  any  one  could  reply  "in  kind"  to  Bertie's  pleas- 
antries, the  folding  doors,  leading  into  the  dining-room, 
were  thrown  open,  and  old  Cornwallis  appeared  and  an- 
nouneed  that  

"Madam  is  served." 

Bertie  gave  his  arm  to  Musa  to  conduct  her  to  the  table. 
August  led  little  Musette  by  the  hand,  and  Sam  followed 
with  Ethelinde. 

"I  think,"  said  Musa,  with  a  smile,  as  she  took  her  seat 
at  the  head  of  the  table — "I  think  that  the  occasion  may 
permit  the  presence  of  the  children  at  our  lunch-table  for 
once." 

"I  think  the  occasion  decidedly  calls  for  ithem,"  added 
August. 

"And  I  think  they  complete  a  very  well  arranged  little 
lunch  party.  We  are  just  three  ladies  and  three  gentle- 
men," concluded  Bertie. 

The  lunch  passed  off  very  pleasantly.  And  when  the 
first  bottle  of  Johannesberg  was  opened,  and  all  the 
,  glasses  filled  around,  Bertie,  glass  in  hand,  arose  and 
said : 

"The  doubtful  old  custom  of  drinking  health  has  passed 
into  disuse,  except  at  public  dinners.  Yet  I  wish  to  pro- 
pose a  health  that  lies  close  to  my  heart."  He  paused  and 
looked  around  upon  the  small,  expectant  party,  then 
bowed  courteously  to  his  hostess  and  to  the  little  girl  by 
her  side,  as  he  gravely  added : 

"The  Countess  of  Cressy  and  the  Lady  Musette  Caux." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 
musa's  triumph. 

Very  soon  after  lunch  was  over,  the  young  Duke  of 
Montcalla  took  leave  of  his  friends. 

That  night,  when  the  two  little  girls  had  gone  to  bed, 
Mr.  Carew,  seated  with  his  wife  and  his  ward,  told  the 
story  of  little  Musette's  life  in  London,  and  her  rescue  by 
her  uncle,  as  it  had  been  told  him  by  Bertie  himself. 

And  in  listening  to  the  relation  of  the  sweet  child's  suf- 


Musa's  Triumph.  219 


ferings  and  labors  of  love,  Musa  dropped  the  very  last 
tears  she  was  ever  required  to  shed  for  little  Musette. 

The  next  morning  the  young  duke  called  again,  bring- 
ing with  him  his  youngest  sister,  Constance.  Leaving 
"Connie"  with  the  two  little  girls,  under  the  charge  of 
Musa,  Bertie  drew  August  off  to  the  latter's  study  for  a 
private  interview.  They  were  closeted  together  for  more 
than  an  hour. 

The  subject  of  their  conversation  was  Musa  and 
Musette,  and  their  common  interests.  And  during  that 
interview  it  was  fully  determined  between  the  two  gen- 
tlemen that,  for  little  Musette's  sake,  Musa  must  acknowl- 
edge and  establish  her  first  marriage — namely,  with  the 
late  Earl  of  Cressy. 

And  it  was  arranged  that  on  the  following  day  the  two 
little  girls — Musette  and  Ethelinde — should  be  sent  under 
the  charge  of  their  nursery  governess  to  Montcalla  Lodge, 
to  spend  the  day  with  their  young  relatives  there.  And 
that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carew  should  meet  the  Duke  of  Mont- 
calla at  the  chambers  of  the  family  solicitors — Messrs. 
Coke  &  Coke,  of  the  Inner  Temple. 

I  will  not  bore  my  readers  by  detailing  the  legal  pro- 
ceedings that  occupied  our  friends  for  the  following  nine 
days. 

It  may  be  sufficient  to  say  that  at  the  end  of  that  period 
Musa  Carew  was  accepted  as  the  Countess  of  Cressy,  and 
Musette  as  the,  lawful  daughter  and  heiress  of  the  late 
Earl  of  Cressy.  And  the  India  fortune  was  turned  over 
to  them. 

"But,  oh,  August,"  said  Musa,  as  they  talked  together, 
in  their  drawing-room,  when  all  this  had  been  accom- 
plished, "I  feel  as  if  I  were  disloyal  to  your  name  and  dis- 
loyal to  all  my  republican  principles  in  accepting  and 
using  this  title." 

"My  dear  Musa,"  said  Mr.  Carew,  smiling,  "but  for 
the  interests  involved,  it  would  be  of  the  least  possible  im- 
portance to  you,  or  to  me,  whether  you  should  be  called 
Mrs.  Carew  or  the  Countess  of  Cressy.  In  using  the  title, 
however,  you  will  please  me  and  do  my  will.  You  will 
not  lose  vour  own  name,  of  course.  You  are  still  Musa 
Carew,  as  well  as  Countess  of  Cressy.  The  title  is  not 
your  name,  but  a  mere  title  of  courtesy.    It  is  necessary 


220  Musa's  Triumph. 

for  little  Musette's  interests  that  you  should  assume  it. 
It  will  also  serve  you  well,  while  you  live  in  this  title- 
loving  community.  If  you  do  not  like  it,  when  we  get 
back  to  America,  you  can  drop  it,  of  course.  It  will  be 
at  your  own  option  even  there." 

"Well,  dear  August,"  'said  Musa,  smiling  brightly, 
"since  this  pleases  you,  it  really  pleases  me.  .  I  should  be 
more  or  less  than  woman  if  it  did  not.  Perhaps  I  shall 
not  drop  it  even  in  America.  Perhaps  I  may  retain  it 
even  there,  if  only  on  account  of  those  women  who,  years 
ago,  maligned  me.  And,  by  the  way,  I  wonder  what  has 
become  of  Armida  Sutton?  Her  poor  mother  has  not 
heard  from  her  for  many  months." 

?>efore  Mr.  Carew  could  think  of  any  answer  to  this 
difficult  question,  the  door  was  thrown  open,  and  the  old, 
white-headed  negro,  Gornwallis,  in  his  most  digniried 
manner,  announced : 

"Lady  Dread f.il  Cough!" 

And  before  Musa  could  get  over  the  effect  of  this  as- 
tounding annunciation,  Lady  Etheldreda  Caux  entered 
the  room. 

Her  ladyship  was  tall,  swarthy  and  dark-haired,  and 
alarmingly  like  her  brother,  the  late  duke.  She  was 
richly  but  plainly  dressed  in  carriage  costume. 

Musa  arose  and  received  her  ladyship  very  gracefully, 
and  then  presented  Mr.  Carew. 

Lady  Etheldreda  resembled  her  late  brother,  the  grim 
old  duke,  in  personal  appearance  only.  In  character  and 
disposition  she  was  very  different  from  him.  She  had 
now  come  in  person  to  invite  August  and  Musa  to  dine  at 
Montcalla  Lodge  on  the  following  Saturday. 

"It  will  be  a  family  party  only,  my  dear  countess,"  said 
Lady  Etheldreda,  in  explanation.  "And  we  wish  Mr. 
Carew  and  yourself  to  meet  the  Dowager  Marchioness  of 
Llangollen,  and  her  daughter,  Lady  Gwendolyn  N'ewydd, 
who  is  betrothed,  as  perhaps  you  are  aware,  to  my  nephew 
Montcalla." 

Musa  bowed  assent,  and  Lady  Etheldreda  continued: 
"The  marchioness  has  come  into  her  town  house  on 
Westbourne  terrace  for  the  wedding,  which  will  come 
off  within  a  month.    We  may  expect  you  on  Saturday 


Musa's  Triumph.  -  221 


evening  to  meet  our  Welsh  friends,  I  hope/'  added  her 
ladyship,  rising  to  take  leave. 

As  August  and  Musa  had  no  engagement  for  Saturday 
evening,  they  accepted  the  invitation  as  frankly  as  it  was 
given,  and  promised  to  go. 

When  Lady  Etheldreda  Caux  had  left,  Musa  turned  to 
her  husband,  crimson  with  mortification,  and  said : 

"Really,  August,  we  must  get  an  English  footman  in 
place  of  old  Gornwallis.  He  is  so  utterly  ignorant.  Just 
think  of  the  way  in  which  he  announced  Lady  Etheldreda 
Caux !" 

August  broke  down  and  laughed  heartily,  partly  at  the 
remembrance  of  that  stunning  performance,  and  partly  at 
Musa's  look  of  dismay  in  speaking  of  it. 

"You  are  much  too  sensitive,  my  dear  Musa.  There  is 
no  harm  done.  Besides,  you  might  not  improve  matters 
by  changing  old  Gornwallis  for  an  English  servant. 
These  latter,  also,  make  inconvenient  mistakes.  Witness 
the  flunkey  who  lately  petrified  an  evening  party  at 
Argyle  House  by  announcing  the  Honorable  Eustace  De 
la  Flote,  as  'Mr.  De'il  afloat!'  But  perhaps,"  added 
August,  archly,  "though  old  Cornwallis  was  quite  good 
enough  for  Mrs.  Carew,  he  may  not  be  equal  to  the  re- 
quirements of  the  Countess  of  Cressy." 

"Oh,  August!"  exclaimed  Musa,  with  a  blush  and  a 
laugh. 

And  after  that  no  more  was  ever  said  about  changing 
Cornwallis  for  an  English  servant. 

On  Saturday,  as  by  engagement,  August  and  Musa 
went  to  dine  at  Montcalla  Lodge,  and  to  meet  the  Welsh 
marchioness  and  her  daughter. 

This,  be  it  remembered,  was  the  first  occasion  upon 
which  Musa  had  made  a  visit  since  her  arrival  in  Eng- 
land. And  thus  quietly,  on  this  evening  of  the  family 
reunion  at  Montcalla  Lodge,  she  entered  their  society  for 
the  first  time  as  Countess  of  Cressy. 

Musa  was  charmed  by  the  affectionate  reception  she 
met  with  from  the  Welsh  marchioness.  And  she  found 
her  daughter,  Lady  Gwendolyn,  quite  as  lovely  as  her 
betrothed  husband  had  represented  her  to  be. 


%2% 


Musa's  Triumph. 


And  after  a  very  delightful  evening  spent  at  Montcalla 
Lodge,  August  and  Musa  returned  to  their  hotel. 

Musa's  second  appearance  in  society,  under  her  title, 
was  at  a  grand  ball  given  by  the  Marchioness  of  Llan- 
gollen, at  her  town  house  in  Westbourne  terrace,  in 
honor  of  the  approaching  marriage  of  her  daughter,  Lady 
Gwendolyn  Newydd,  with  the  Duke  of  Montcalla. 

Musa  was  now  but  twenty-six  years  of  age.  And  the 
splendor  of  her  dark  beauty,  enhanced  now  by  the  love- 
liness of  love  and  the  light  of  joy,  was  more  glorious 
than  it  had  ever  been  in  her  life  before. 

The  Countess  of  Cressy  was  the  belle  of  that  ball,  and 
from  that  evening  she  was  cited  as  the  most  beautiful 
woman  in  London. 

Later  in  the  month  the  marriage  of  the  Duke  of  Mont- 
calla and  Lady  Gwendolyn  Newydd  was  celebrated  at 
St.  George's,  Hanover  Square.  It  was  said  to  be  the 
most  beautiful  as  well  as  the  most  magnificent  wedding 
of  the  season. 

It  was  Lady  Gwendolyn's  pleasure  to  be  attended  to 
the  altar  by  a  train  of  bridesmaids  formed  of  children 
only.  They  were  six  in  number,  namely,  the  bride's  own 
and  only  sister,  Lady  Winnifred  Newydd,  a  little  maiden 
of  fourteen  springs ;  the  bridegroom's  four  young  sisters, 
the  Ladies  Maude,  Edith,  Berthe  and  Constance  Caux, 
and,  lastly,  his  niece,  our  own  little  Lady  Musette. 

The  bride  was  splendidly  arrayed  in  a  rich  white  gros- 
grain  silk,  with  an  overdress  and  veil  of  finest  point  lace, 
a  wreath  and  bouquet  of  orange  flowers,  and  the  magnifi- 
cent Montcalla  diamonds. 

The  fairy  trains  of  the  little  bridesmaids  were  uni- 
formly dressed  in  white  illusion  over  white  silk,  white 
sashes  and  bows,  and  white  rosebud  wreaths  and  bou- 
quets. 

The  youthful  Marquis  of  Llangollen,  the  brother  of 
the  bride,  was  "best  man,"  or,  as  we  would  call  him,  first 
groomsman  to  the  bridegroom. 

The  ceremony  was  performed  by  a  bishop,  assisted  by 
two  deans. 

After  the  ceremony  the  wedding  party  adjourned  to 
Westbourne  terrace,  where  they  partook  of  a  sumptuous 
wedding  breakfast,  given  by  the  Marchioness  of  Llan- 


Musa's  Triumph.  223 


gollen,  and  where  they  viewed  the  costly  wedding  pres- 
ents displayed  in  one  of  the  reception-rooms. 

There  was  a  lengthy  account  of  the  marriage  cere- 
monies and  festivities  in  the  next  issue  of  the  Court 
Journal.  And  among  the  names  of  the  noble  and  dis- 
tinguished guests  appeared  those  of 

"Musa,  Countess  of  Cressy,  and  Mr.  Carew." 

As  the  London  season  drew  to  a  close,  Lady  Ethel- 
dreda  Caux,  with  her  little  nieces  and  their  maids  and 
governesses,  left  town  for  Caux  Castle.  And,  acting 
under  the  secret  instructions  of  her  idolized  nephew,  she 
invited  August  and  Musa,  with  their  two  little  girls  and 
their  ward,  to  join  her  autumn  party  at  the  castle. 

August  and  Musa  accepted  the  invitation,  and,  with 
their  family,  went  North. 

It  was  from  Caux  Castle  that  Musa  wrote  to  her 
American  friends  and  relations,  telling  them,  for  the 
first  time,  the  secret  of  her  first  marriage  and  the  birth  of 
her  first  child,  and  detailing  to  them  all  the  events  that, 
since  her  arrival  in  England,  had  led  up  to  her  recog- 
nition as  the  Countess  of  Cressy. 

And  in  due  time  came  back  a  budget  of  letters  from 
America,  each  particular  letter  superscribed  formally  to 
the  Countess  of  Cressy,  and  all  filled  with  expressions  of 
surprise  and  congratulations. 

Among  them,  the  most  earnest  and  sincere  in  utter- 
ances of  heartfelt  good-will  came  from  her  okl  guardian, 
Mr.  Lyttleton  Locke,  and  from  her  devoted  young 
friend,  Clarice  Howard.  Mrs.  Kate  Carew's  contrary 
acceptance  of  the  news  was  characteristic. 

"Countess  of  Cressy?"  wrote  Kate.  "Pooh!  What  is  that, 
when  you  might  have  been  Duchess  of  Montcalla,  had  you  so 
pleased  ?" 

Musa  laughed,  and  showed  this  letter  to  her  husband. 

"Well,  my  darling,  I  suppose,  if  you  had  not  met  me, 
you  really  would  have  married  Bertie  at  last,"  said 
August,  smiling. 

"Never !"  exclaimed  Musa,  energetically.  "I  was  very 
fond  of  good  Bertie  in  a  sisterly  way.  And  I  am  so  still, 
bless  his  dear  old  heart !    But  I  never  could  have  enter- 


224 


Musa's  Triumph. 


tained  the  thought  of  marrying  the  Earl  of  Cressy's 
brother." 

"Well,  my  dearest,  I,  for  one,  quite  approve  of  your 
sentiments,"  archly  commented  August. 
And  the  conversation  dropped. 

There  was  yet  one  letter  that  Musa  had  not  opened. 
It  was  from  Mrs.  Sutton,  her  housekeeper  at  Bay 
Beauty. 

Musa  took  it  from  its  envelope,  and  began  to  read  it 
with  careless  indifference ;  but  as  she  read  it,  her  interest 
awakened  and  deepened  painfully. 

After  wishing  the  Countess  of  Cressy  and  the  little 
Lady  Musette  all  manner  of  happiness  in  the  enjoyment 
of  their  new  fortune,  and  after  informing  her  patroness 
that  all  was  right  and  every  one  well  at  Bay  Beauty,  the 
poor  woman  proceeded  to  say: 

But  all  is  as  wrong  as  ever  it  can  be  with  my  poor  girl  Ar- 
mida.  She  has  just  come  back  to  me,  a  dreadful  wreck  of  her- 
self— utterly  broken  down  in  health  and  perfectly  destitute  rn 
circumstances.  That  grand  villain  who  pretended  to  marry  her 
had  another  wife  all  the  time,  living  on  her  own  estate  in  Pom- 
erania.  And  when  he  got  tired  of  Armida,  he  just  up  and  told 
her  so,  and  turned  her  adrift.  She  is  here  with  me  now,  madam; 
but  whether  you  will  permit  her  to  stay  here,  of  course,  I  cannot 
tell.  And  whatever  I  am  to  do  with  her,  I  am  sure  I  do  not 
know. 

Musa  paused  long  and  thoughtfully  over  this  letter, 
and  then,  to  her  honor  be  it  written,  she  sat  down  and 
answered  it  before  she  replied  to  any  of  the  others. 

She  told  Mrs.  Sutton  to  keep  her  unhappy  daughter 
under  her  own  protection  at  Bay  Beauty  as  long  as  Ar- 
mida  might  choose  to  remain,  even  if  it  should  be  for  the 
term  of  her  natural  life.  And  she  increased  the  house- 
keeper's salary,  to  enable  the  mother  to  provide  the  best 
medical  attendance,  as  well  as  every  comfort  and  luxury, 
for  her  invalid  daughter. 

A  few  days  after  mailing  this  letter  to  Mrs.  Sutton, 
Musa  received  a  very  important  communication  from 
America  that  nearly  took  away  her  breath. 

It  was  another  long  letter  from  her  mother,  Mrs.  Kate 
Carew.  1 


Musa's  Triumph. 


But  we  have  room  only  for  one  short  extract,  which 
will,  however,  explain  the  whole: 

"You  will  be  very  much  surprised,  my  dear  countess,"  wrote 
Kate,  "to  hear  that,  at  the  age  of  forty-five,  I  am  about  to  be  mar- 
ried for  the  third  time. 

"And  to  another  old  man,  my  darling.  Old  men  are  my  fate. 
I  cannot  resist  them.    Or — they  cannot  resist  me,  which  is  it? 

"A  third  old  man !  Just  think  of  it !  Not  an  old  widower 
this  time,  however,  and  not  a  Carew.  I  have  pretty  well  killed 
off  all  the  unmarried  and  marriageable  male  Carews ! 

"Can  you  guess  who  the  third  unhappy  man  is  to  be? 

"An  old  bachelor.    Can  you  guess  'now? 

"A  rich  old  bachelor.    Now  you  can  guess. 

"No  ?   Then  I  shall  have  to  tell  you.    Mr.  Lyttleton  Locke ! 

"Yes,  countess,  I  have  actually  brought  down  that  wary  old 
bird,  and  it  has  done  me  good.    I  am  proud  of  the  job. 

"If  the  Whig  candidate  for  the  Presidency  should  be  elected, 
Mr.  Lyttleton  Locke  will  be  a  member  of  the  Whig  cabinet,  as 
Attorney-General.  That  would  suit  me  very  well.  I  could  al- 
ways tell  him  what  to  do,  and  he  would  have  to  do  it.  I  should 
be  'the  power  behind  the  throne  stronger  than  the  throne.'  Some 
women  clamor  about  their  rights.  I  quietly  take  mine — and  other 
people's  also. 

"Well,  my  darling,  we  are  to  be  married  on  the  fifteenth  of 
September,  and  immediately  after  the  wedding  we  are  to  start  for 
Europe.  If  we  do  not  go  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  ocean  in  the 
equinoctial  storms  that  may  be  expected  about  that  time,  we  shall 
reach  Havre  about  the  first  of  October.  We  go  first  to  Paris, 
thence  to  Marseilles,  thence  to  Rome.  We  shall  make  quite  an 
extended  tour  of  the  Continent. 

"But  we  expect  to  be  in  London  early  in  February,  to  witness 
the  opening  of  Parliament. 

"Will  your  house  in  Piccadilly  be  ready  to  receive  us  then? 
For  naturally,  you  know,  we  shall  come  to  our  dear  children." 

"I  declare,"  said  Musa  to  herself,  when  she  had  fin- 
ished reading  his  letter,  ''Kate  is  worse  for  marrying 
than  Maggie  Seaforth  herself.  Poor  Maggie  had  the 
excuse  of  poverty  and  helplessness.  Kate  has  none  of 
these.    I  will  write  her  a  very  sharp  letter." 

And  she  forthwith  sat  down  and  wrote 

Kate,  you  are  getting  into  very  bad  habits.  I  feel  forced  to 
protest,  like  young  Sam  Seaforth,  that  I  really  can't  stand  so 
many  stepfathers.  No,  ma'am.  Mr.  Lyttleton  Locke  will  make 
the  second  that  you  have  given  me  within  the  last  five  years. 
What  do  you  mean  by  it?  Do  you  intend  to  kill  off  all  the  fine 
old  gentlemen  in  the  country  before  you  stop  marrying,  and  con- 
sent to  grow  old?  I  declare  that  such  is  my  regard  for  my 
honored  old  guardian,  that  I  am  tempted  to  go  over  and  forbid 


226 


Musafs  Triumph, 


the  ba'nns.   I  cannot  bear  the  idea  of  having  him  added  to  crown 

the  holocaust  of  your  matrimonial  victims. 

Musa  actually  sent  off  this  letter  to  Mrs.  Kate  Carew, 
but  her  laughing  protestations  were  of  no  effect  what- 
ever. For  early  in  September  she  received  the  wedding 
cards  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lyttleton  Locke. 

While  these  affairs  were  transpiring,  the  young  heir 
of  Raven  Rocks  and  Pirate's  Peak,  under  the  direction  of 
an  accomplished  private  tutor,  was  studying  diligently 
to  make  up  for  wasted  years. 

Early  in  January  the  Countess  of  Cressy  and  Mr.  Ca- 
rew took  possession  of  their  new  house  in  Piccadilly,  so 
as  to  be  comfortably  settled  before  the  meeting  of  Par- 
liament, and  the  gathering  of  fashion  to  the  metropolis. 
The  young  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Montcalla  also  came 
up  early  in  the  season  to  Montcalla  Lodge,  Kensington. 
And  the  Marchioness  of  Llangollen,  with  her  son,  the 
youthful  marquis  came  up  to  her  town  house  on  West- 
bourne  terrace. 

At  the  first  drawing-room  of  the  season  at  Bucking- 
ham Palace  there  were  two  distinguished  presentations. 
The  first  was  that  of  the  young  Duchess  of  Montcalla, 
on  her  marriage.  The  second  was  that  of  the  Countess 
of  Cressy.  Both  these  ladies  were  presented  by  the 
Marchioness  of  Llangollen. 

And  if  the  young  duchess  was  the  more  interesting  on 
account  of  her  bridal  freshness,  early  youth,  and  high 
rank,  the  beautiful  countess  was  more  effective  upon 
other  grounds.  The  splendor  of  her  grand,  dark,  orien- 
tal syle  of  beauty  made  the  greatest  impression  of  the 
day. 

And  thus,  in  this  season,  as  in  the  last,  the  Countess 
of  Cressy  was  voted  by  all  the  clubs  to  be  the  most 
beautiful  woman  in  England. 

And  the  house  of  the  Countess  of  Cressy  and  Mr.  Ca- 
rew, in  Piccadilly,  became  one  of  the  most  distinguished 
centers  of  intellect,  beauty  and  fashion  in  London. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lyttleton  Locke  did  not  reach  London 
as  early  in  the  season  as  they  had  expected  to  do.  They 
had  extended  their  travels  farther  and  protracted  their 
stay  longer  than  they  had  intended.   And  thus  it  hap- 


Musette's  Happiness,  227 


pened  that  they  did  not  arrive  until  near  the  end  of  Feb* 
ruary.  They  came  directly  to  the  house  of  August  and 
Musa,  in  Piccadilly,  and  were  very  cordially  received  by 
their  host  and  hostess. 

Mr.  Lyttleton  Locke  occupied  himself  chiefly  in  at-* 
tending  the  debates  in  the  House  of  Commons  and  the 
trials  in  the  Westminster  Courts. 

Kate  threw  herself  with  all  her  soul  into  the  whirl  of 
fashionable  life,  enjoying  it  as  if  she  had  been  but 
twenty-one  instead  of  forty-five. 

And  Kate  took  a  malicious  pleasure  in  saving  marked 
copies  of  the  Court  Journal  that  contained  notices  of 
the  Countess  of  Cressy's  beauty,  elegance  and  wit,  or 
of  her  brilliant  parties,  or  of  her  appearance  at  this,  that 
or  the  other  royal  state  dinner  or  princely  ball,  and  send- 
ing them  over  to  Washington  to  those  women  who  had 
once  so  cruelly  maligned  Musa. 


CHAPTER  XX. 
musette's  happiness. 

And  she  will  wed  her  earliest  love — 

One  who  in  youngest  childhood  and  ripe  youth 

Was  ever  hers ;  with  whose  advancing  thought 

She  grew  entwined ;  to  whom  in  time,  she'll  yield 

Her  maiden  coyness,  and  in  mystic  band 

Will  link  herself,  for  aye — one  heart,  one  life, 

Blended  together  in  the  innermost  soul. — H.  Alford. 

Happy  lives  have  no  history,  it  is  said.  And  the  lives 
of  the  people  in  whom  I  have  been  trying  to  interest  you 
flowed  on  from  this  time  forth  so  peacefully  that  there 
is  little  to  record  of  them  for  years  to  come. 

And  that  little  may  be  written  in  a  few  words. 

First,  the  Whig  candidate  for  the  Presidency  was  not 
elected,  so  Mr.  Lyttleton  Locke  was  not  made  Attorney- 
General,  and  Mrs.  Lyttleton  Locke  did  not  get  the  cov- 
eted opportunity  of  putting  her  jeweled  finger  into  the 
political  pie. 

But  they  went  back  to  Washington  Citv,  where  Kate 
set  up  a  magnificent  establishment  at  the  Poplars,  en* 


n$  Musette's  Happiness. 


tertained  fashionable  company,  and  spent  the  old  law- 
yer's money  extravagantly  all  the  week,  and  dragged 
him  to'church  three  times  every  Sunday,  and  made  him 
believe  that  he  never  knew  how  to  live  until  she  had 
taught  him  the  way. 

Mr.  Lyttleton  Locke  is  a  very  tough  old  gentleman, 
seasoned  by  fifty  years  of  hardening  in  the  legal  profes- 
sion. _  So  I  do  not  think  that  Kate  will  succeed  in  kill- 
ing him  very  soon;  or  that  she  will  ever  have  a  fourth 
husband,  or  give  Musa  a  third  stepfather. 

The  same  may  be  said,  by  the  way,  of  her  humble  rival 
in  the  matrimonial  race — the  very-much-married  Maggie 
Wilks. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Wilks  is  a  sallow,  billious,  melan- 
choly subject,  and  therefore  we  know  that  because  he  has 
got  no  liver  to  speak  of  he  will  live  forever;  and  that 
Maggie  will  not  have  to  add  her  lamentations  for  her 
"poor  Jerry,"  to  those  for  her  "poor  Jack,"  and  her 
"poor  Hal."  And  Sam  will  never  be  called  upon  to 
"stand"  another  stepfather. 

But  to  return  to  Kate. 

In  all  her  social  intercourse  in  Washington  she  had 
the  good  taste  not  to  talk  overmuch  of  her  "daughter 
the  Countess  of  Cressy,"  except  on  occasions  when  she 
met  any  of  those  malicious  women  who  had  so  basely 
slandered  Musa  in  the  past  seasons;  then,  indeed,  Kate 
gave  the  reins  to  her  tongue  and  to  her  imagination,  and 
let  them  run.  And  she  must  have  been  above,  or  below, 
the  average  of  feminine  human  nature  had  she  forborne 
to  do  so. 

It  was  in  the  second  year  of  their  residence  in  London 
that  Musa  presented  her  husband  with  a  fine  boy,  much 
to  the  delight  of  August,  who,  naturally  enough,  desired 
a  son. 

Mr.  Carew's  life  career  seemed  to  be  decided.  It  was 
to  be  a  diplomatic  one,  as  that  for  which  his  genius  and 
training  best  fitted  him. 

He  remained  attached  to  the  American  Legation  in 
London  until  the  recall  of  the  minister,  in  the  autumn 
of  the  third  year  of  his  foreign  civil  service. 

Then  Mr."  Carew  and  Musa,  with  their  children  and 
their  ward,  returned  with  the  legation  to  America, 


Musette's  Happiness.  229 


They  reached  Washington  early  in  the  winter,  and 
took  up  their  residence  in  their  house  on  Vermont  ave- 
nue, which  had  been  got  ready  for  their  reception  under 
the  supervision  of  Mrs.  Chief  Justice  Shrewsbury. 

And  Musa  re-entered  once  more  upon  the  role  of  a 
leader  of  fashion. 

And  Mrs.  Lyttleton  Locke's  heart  swelled  with 
triumph  as  she  saw  how  Musa  was  courted,  followed  and 
flattered  by  those  very  persons  who  had  once  so  cruelly 
maligned  her.  Here  Musa  met  her  dear  friends,  Captain 
and  Mrs.  Philip  Shrewsbury,  who  had  kept  the  Ver- 
mont avenue  home  warm  for  her  during  her  long  ab- 
sence, and  who  still  remained  at  the  earnest  desire  of 
their  hostess. 

Samuel  Carew  had  not  accompanied  his  guardians  to 
Washington,  but  had  parted  from  them  in  New  York 
to  go  up  to  Inwood  and  see  his  mother;  and  there,  much 
to  poor  Maggie's  delight,  he  became  fully  reconciled  to 
his  clerical  stepfather,  and  even  continued  his  studies 
under  the  Rev.  Mr.  Wilks'  directions. 

Early  in  the  following  summer  Mr.  Carew  and  Musa 
went  down  to  Bay  Beauty,  where  they  found  everything 
in  a  prosperous  and  flourishing  condition. 

There  Musa  found  her  old  treacherous  enemy,  Armida 
Sutton;  an  enemy  no  longer,  but  a  poor,  crushed,  heart- 
broken and  penitent  woman,  who  could  only  be  met  with 
pity  and  pardon. 

Musa  kissed  the  seal  of  full  forgiveness  on  her  pale 
lips,  and  told  her  to  live  in  peace  with  her  mother,  at 
Bay  Beauty,  as  long  as  she  should  desire  to  do  so. 

And  thus  Armida  found  a  warm  home  there  for  the 
rest  of  her  life. 

While  staying  at  Bay  Beauty,  August  and  Musa  re- 
newed their  affectionate  intimacy  with  their  old  friends, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Horace  Howard,  of  The  Shoals.  Clarice, 
in  addition  to  her  fair  little  boy,  Eercie,  who  was  about 
the  age  of  Musa's  Ethelinda,  had  now  a  pretty  little  girl, 
whom  she  called  Dora,  after  Musa's  mother. 

Early  in  June,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lyttleton  Locke  came 
down  to  Pirate's  Peak  to  spend  the  summer. 

And  in  July,  Mrs.  Chief  Justice  and  Captain  and 


230 


Musette's  Happiness. 


Mrs.  Philip  Shrewsbury  arrived  on  a  visit  to  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Howard,  at  The  Shoals. 

And  Clarice,  in  her  delight  at  this  reunion,  declared 
that  with  Musa  there,  and  all  the  others,  it  was  quite 
like  old  times. 

But  another  flattering  change  was  at  hand  for  August 
and  Musa. 

In  September  of  that  year,  Mr.  Carew's  distinguished 
talents  as  a  diplomat  were  recognized,  and  his  important 
services  to  his  government,  while  he  was  attached  to 
the  American  Legation  at  London,  were  rewarded  by  his 
appointment  as  Ambassador  Extraordinary  and  Minis- 
ter Plenipotentiary  to  the  Court  of  Austria,  with  in- 
structions to  proceed  on  his  mission  without  delay. 

Musa  and  August  took  leave  of  their  friends,  and  with 
their  children  and  servants  went  to  New  York  to  meet 
the  United  States  ship  Nevada,  that  was  to  take  the  new 
minister  and  his  suite  to  Europe. 

Before  sailing,  Mr.  Carew  and  Musa  took  their  chil- 
dren and  old  Cassy  up  to  In-wood  to  see  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Wilks,  and  also  to  resume  their  charge  of  their  ward, 
Samuel  Carew,  who,  his  guardian  decided,  should  com- 
plete his  studies  in  Germany. 

They  found  the  worthy  couple  moderately  well  and 
prosperous.  Mr.  Wilks'  "Preparatory  School  for 
Young  Gentlemen"  was  in  quite  a  flourishing  condition. 

Maggie  wept  happy  tears  over  Musette,  whom  she 
declared  she  should  have  known  anywhere  by  her  beau- 
tiful eyes. 

"Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen." 

Maggie's  conscience  was  troubled,  however,  about  oc- 
cupying the  Brown  Cottage — "trespassing,"  she  called  it, 
"living  there  so  long  without  paying  a  cent  of  rent." 

Musa  assured  her  that  she  never  should  be  called  upon 
to  pay,  adding: 

"I  would  give  you  the  place  in  fee  simple,  Maggie,  if 
I  had  not  long  ago  given  it  to  Musette.  But  Musette  is 
an  heiress  now,  and  will  never  want  it.  And  when  she 
is  of  legal  age  to  dispose  of  it,  I  know  she  will  give  it 
to  you.  Will  you  not,  my  darling?"  said  the  mother, 
turning  t©  the  child, 


Musette's  Happiness.  231 


Almost  any  child  thus  appealed  to  would  have  prom- 
ised the  gift,  as  a  matter  of  course. 

But  little  Musette  understood  and  felt  what  she  prom- 
ised, and  she  answered  earnestly: 

"Oh,  indeed  I  will,  Mrs.  Wilks.  I  shall  love  to  give 
it  to  you.    It  is  so  pretty,  and  you  like  it  so  much.'"' 

The  visit  was  necessarily  a  short  one.  And  Mr.  Ca- 
rew  and  Musa,  with  their  children  and  ward,  and  old 
Cassy,  prepared  to  return  to  the  city.  In  taking  leave 
of  the  Brown  Cottage  for  the  last  time,  old  Cassy  de- 
livered her  sentiments  as  follows: 

"I  lived  to  be  well  on  to  sixty  year  ole,  in  peace  and 
quietness,  among  my  own  people,  and  expected  to  die 
the  same.  But  now,  bless  the  Lord!  ever  since  that  time  I 
have  come  to  be  a  great  trabeler  in  my  ole  days. 
Couldn't  I  write  a  book  about  it  if  I  knowed  how? 
Umph!  umph!  Here  I  been  goin'  up  and  down  on  the 
yeth,  and  a  walking  to  and  fro  on  it,  like  old  Satan  in 
the  days  of  St.  Job,  and  doin'  nuffin  else,  for  the  last 
ten  year!  •'Deed,  I  spects  I'll  have  to  end  my  days 
amongst  the  speckled  niggers  on  the  Sandditch  Islands, 
afore  I  die  yet!" 

The  new  embassy  to  the  Court  of  Austria  sailed  on 
the  first  of  October,  and  in  due  course  of  time  arrived 
safely  at  their  destination. 

His  Excellency,  Augsut  Carew,  Ambassador  Extraor- 
dinary and  Minister  Plenipotentiary,  etc..  etc.,  and  Musa, 
Countess  of  Cressy,  took  their  proper  places  at  once  in 
the  court  circle  of  Vienna.  And  the  countess  became  as 
celebrated  in  social  coteries  for  her  beauty  and  wit  as  the 
minister  was  distinguished  in  political  cliques  for  state- 
craft and  diplomatic  talent.  Samuel  Carew  lived  at  a 
German  university,  but  spent  all  his  holidays  and  vaca- 
tions at  the  house  of  the  American  minister  at  Vienna 

And  it  was  through  the  superior  intellect  and  spirit- 
ual influence  and  inspirations  of  that  house  and  circle 
that  the  honest  and  affectionate  boy  developed  into  a 
pure  and  noble  man,  worthy  even  of  the  love  of  the  sweet 
maiden  Musette,  the  love  that  was  destined  to  bless  his 
whole  life. 

Samuel  Carew's  inherited  wealth  rendered  him  per- 
fectly independent  of  profession  or  place,  but  a  life  of  idle- 


Musette's  Happiness. 


ness  was  not  at  all  suited  to  his  taste  of  to  Ms  ambition. 
So  he  read  law  at  Gottingen,  and  made  a  specialty  of  the 

study  of  international  law. 

When  young  Carew  graduated  from  'the  university, 
Mr.  Carew  attached  him  to  the  legation  as  an  initial  step 
toward  that  diplomatic  career  to  which  the  ambition  of 
the  young  gentleman  tended. 

After  this,  Mr.  Carew  and  the  Countess  of  Cressy  re- 
mained abroad  many  years — he  representing  his  govern- 
ment, in  succession,  at  nearly  every  court  in  Europe ;  she 
shining  in  the  highest  circles  by  the  glorious  light  of  her 
beauty  and  genius. 

Everywhere  Samuel  Carew  accompanied  them,  fascin- 
ated by  the  spell  of  Musette's  loveliness,  both  of  person 
and  disposition,  and  every  year  rising  step  by  step  as  a 
member  of  the  legation. 

Musette  returned  his  devotion  with  the  purest  love 
that  seraph  ever  felt  for  man. 

Musette  herself  was  universally  loved,  and  from  her 
first  appearance  in  society,  which  took  place  when  her 
parents  were  at  the  Court  of  St.  Germain,  many  noble 
and  wealthy  suitors  sought  her  hand  in  marriage.  Even 
a  German  prince  laid  his  royalty  at  her  feet. 

But  this  "maiden  meek"  turned  away  from  her  royal 
and  noble  suitors,  and  with  the  consent  and  blessing  of 
her  mother  she  gave  the  priceless  treasure  of  her  heart 
to  him  who  had  been  her  lifelong  lover,  "to  him  who  in 
laughing  childhood  and  ripe  youth  was  ever  hers."  And 
so  we  will  leave  Musette,  in  a  heaven  of  love  that 
emanates  from  her  own  angel-spirit  and  brightens  and 
blesses  all  that  come  within  her  sphere, 


THE  END. 


America,  rv  Authors' 
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51  Meadowbrook  Farm 
52 


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PHRENOLOGY 

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